/ 


THE 


COMPLETE 


POETICAL   WORKS 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL, 


A    MEMOIR    OF    HIS    LIFE. 


A    NEW    EDITION 


BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON    AND    COMPANY, 

110  WASHINGTON   STREET. 

1854. 


Pi 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB. 

SKETCH  OP  THE  LIFE  OP  CAMPBELL, 7 

"^THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE, 33 

PartL, 34 

Part  II., 56 

^GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 73 

Parti 75 

PartlL, 85 

PartHI 94 

^THEODRIC  :  A  DOMESTIC  TALE 107 

TRANSLATIONS  :  —  Fragment,  from  the  Greek  of  Alcman,  126 

Song  of  Hybrias,  the  Cretan 126 

Martial  Elegy,  from  the  Greek  of  Tyrtaeus,  .     .     .  127- 

Specimens  of  Translation  from  Medea, 128 

Speech  of  the  Chorus,  in  the  same  Tragedy,     .     .  129 
V)'Connor's  Child ;    or,  "The  Flower  of   Love  lies 

bleeding," 134 

•*  \Lochiel' s  Warning, 143 

^Battle  of  the  Baltic 146 

"Ye  Mariners  of  England, 149 

TTohenlinden, 150 

""  Vrlenara, 152 

NExile  of, Erin, 153, 

Yord  Ullin's  Daughter^ v:i    .     .     .154 

Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Burns 157 

,  written  on  visiting  a  Scene  in  Argyleshire,  .     .  160 

Soldier's  Dream, 161 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAOK. 

To  the  Rainbow, 162 

The  Last  Man,     .     .     .     .    , 164 

^.  Dream 167 

Valedictory  Stanzas,  to  J.  P.  Kemble,  Esq.,  ...  169 
Lines,  written  for  the  Highland  Society,  ....  172 
Stanzas,  to  the  Memory  of  thp  Spanish  Patriots,  .  .  174 
Song  of  the  Greeks, 175 

\)de  to  Winter 177 

Lines,  spoken  by  Mrs.  Bartley,  at  Drury-Lane  Theatre, 
after  the  Death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  in  1817,  179 

Lines,  on  the  Grave  of  a  Suicide, 181 

Reullura 182. 

The  Turkish  Lady, 188 

The  Brave  Roland, 189 

The  Spectre  Boat 191x- 

Song  —  "  Oh,  how  hard  it  is  to  find," 192 

The  Lover  to  his  Mistress,  on  her  Birth-day,   ...     193 

Adelgitha, 194 

Lines,  on  receiving  a  Seal  with  the  Campbell  Crest,  .     194/1 

The  Dirge  of  Wallace, 196 

Chaucer  and  Windsor, 198 

Gilderoy 198 

Stanzas,  on  the  threatened  Invasion,  1803,  ....  200 
The  Ritter  Bann, 201 

^Song — "  Men  of  England," 207* 

Song —  "  Drink  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  best,"      .     .  208 

The  Harper, 209*  v 

The  Wounded  Hussar, 210 

Love  and  Madness, 211 

Hallowed  Ground, 213 

Song  —  "  Withdraw  not  yet  those  lips  and  fingers,"  .     216 

^Saroline—  Parti '.217 

Caroline  —  Part  H.  —  To  the  Evening  Star,     .     .     .     219" 

The  Beech  Tree's  Petition, 220 

Field  Flowers 221 

Stanzas,  to  Painting 222' 


CONTENTS  5 

TASK. 

Lines,  inscribed  on  a  Monument,  erected  to  the  Memory 
of  Admiral  Sir  G.  Campbell,  K.  C.  B.,  by  his  Widow,  225 

Bong,  to  the  Evening  Star, 

Stanzas,  on  the  Battle  of  Navarino, 227 

The  Maid's  Remonstrance, 228 

Absence 229 

Lines,  on  revisiting  a  Scottish  River, 230 

The  "  Name  Unknown"  —  In  imitation  of  Klopstock,  231 

Lines,  on  the  Camp  Hill,  near  Hastings, 232 

Farewell  to  Love, 233 

Lines,  on  Poland, 235 

Margaret  and  Dora, 239 

A  Thought  suggested  by  the  New  Year 240 

%ong — "  How  delicious  is  the  winning,"     ....     241 

The  Power  of  Russia, 242 

Lines,  on  leaving  a  Scene  in  Bavaria, 245 

The  Death-Boat  of  Heligoland, 250 

Song  i—  "  When  Love  came  first  to  Earth,  the  Spring,"  252 

\tong —  "  Earl  March  looked  on  his  dying  child,"  .     .  252 

Song — "  When  Napoleon  was  flying," 253 

Lines,  to  Julia  M — ,  sent  with  a  Copy  of  the  Author's 

Poems, 254 

Drinking  Song  of  Munich, 255 

Lines,  on  the  Departure  of  Emigrants  for  New  South 

-    Wales, 256 

Lines,  on  revisiting  Cathcart, 259 

The  Cherubs, 260 

Senex's  Soliloquy  on  his  Youthful  Idol, 263 

To  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  on  his  Speech  in  Parliament, 
respecting  the  Foreign  Policy  of  Great  Britain,  1832,  264 

Ode  to  the  Germans, 266 

Lines,  on  a  Picture  of  a  Girl  in  the  Attitude  of  Prayer,  267 

Lines,  on  the  View  from  St.  Leonard's, 269 

The  Dead  Eagle, 273 

Song  —  "  To  Love  in  my  heart,  I  exclaimed,  t'other 

morning," 276 

1* 


G 


C  ONTENTS. 


PAGK. 
Lines,    written    in  a  Blank-Leaf  of    La  Perouse's 

Voyages, 277, 

The  Pilgrim  of  Glencoe 28o' 

The  Child  and  Hind 295 

Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor, 300 

The  Jilted  Nymph 303 

Benlomond, 304 

The  Parrot, 305 

On  getting  Home  the  Portrait  of  a  Female  Child,  Six 

Years  old, 306 

Song  of  the  Colonists  departing  for  New  Zealand,  .     .  308 

Moonlight, 309 

Cora  Linn,  or  the  Falls  of  the  Clyde 311 

Lines,  suggested  by  the  Statue  of  Arnold  Von  Win- 

kelreid, 312 

Song  of  our  Queen, 314 

Lines,  on  my  new  Child-Sweetheart, 314 

To  the  United  States  of  North  America,      ....     316 

The  Launch  of  a  First-Rate, 316 

Epistle  from  Algiers,  to  Horace  Smith, 317 

To  a  Young  Lady,  who  asked  me  to  write  something 

original  for  her  Album 320 

Fragment  of  an  Oratorio,  from  the  Book  of  Job,     .     .320 
NOTES, 323 


SKETCH 


OF   THE 


LIFE    OF    CAMPBELL. 


THE  following  spirited,  and  evidently  truthful,  account 
of  the  Life  of  Thomas  Campbell,  appeared  in  Fraser'a 
Magazine  for  November,  1844. 

I  WISH  to  write  about  Thomas  Campbell  in.  the  spirit  of 
impartial  friendship  :  I  cannot  say  that  I  knew  him  long, 
or  that  I  knew  him  intimately.  I  have  stood,  when  a  boy, 
between  his  knees ;  he  has  advised  me  in  my  literary 
efforts,  and  lent  me  books.  I  have  met  him  in  mixed 
societies  —  have  supped  with  him  in  many  of  his  very 
many  lodgings  —  have  drunk  punch  of  his  own  brewing 
from  his  silver  bowl  —  have  mingled  much  with  those  who 
knew  and  understood  him,  and  have  been  at  all  times  a 
diligent  inquirer,  and,  I  trust,  recorder  of  much  that  came 
within  my  immediate  knowledge  about  him.  But  let  me 
not  raise  expectation  too  highly.  Mr.  Campbell  was  not 
a  communicative  man ;  he  knew  much,  but  was  seldom  in 
the  mood  to  tell  what  he  knew.  He  preferred  a  smart 
saying,  or  a  seasoned  or  seasonable  story ;  he  trifled  in  his 
table-talk,  and  you  might  sound  him  about  his  contem 
poraries  to  very  little  purpose.  Lead  the  conversation  as 


8  LIFE     OF      C  A  M  P  B  E  L  L  . 

you  liked,  Campbell  was  sure  to  direct  it  in  a  different 
way.  He  had  no  '  arro w-flights  of  thought.'  You  could 
seldom  awaken  a  recollection  of  the  dead  within  him ;  the 
mention  of  no  eminent  contemporary's  name  called  forth  a 
sigh,  or  an  anecdote,  or  a  kind  expression.  He  did  not 
love  the  past  —  he  lived  for  to-day  and  for  to-morrow,  and 
fed  on  the  pleasures  of  hope,  not  the  pleasures  of  memory. 
Spence,  Boswell,  Hazlitt,  or  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge,  had 
made  very  little  of  his  conversation;  old  Aubrey,  or  the 
author  of  Polly  Peacham's  jests,  had  made  much  more, 
but  the  portrait  in  their  hands  had  only  been  true  to  the 
baser  moments  of  his  mind ;  we  had  lost  the  poet  of  Hope 
and  Hohenlinden  in  the  coarse  sketches  of  anecdote  and 
narrative  which  they  told  and  drew  so  truly. 

Thomas  Campbell  was  born  in  Glasgow,  on  the  27th  of 
July,  1777,  the  tenth  and  youngest  child  of  his  parents. 
His  father  was  a  merchant  in  that  city,  and  in  his  sixty- 
seventh  year  when  the  poet  (the  son  of  his  second  mar 
riage)  was  born.  He  died,  as  I  have  heard  Campbell  say, 
at  the  great  age  of  ninety-two*  His  mother's  maiden 
name  was  Mary  Campbell. 

Mr.  Campbell  was  entered  a  student  of  the  High  School 
at  Glasgow,  on  the  10th  of  October,  1785.  How  long  he 
remained  there  no  one  has  told  us.  In  his  thirteenth  year 
he  carried  off  a  bursary  from  a  competitor  twice  his  age, 
and  took  a  prize  for  a  translation  of  "The  Clouds"  of 
Aristophanes,  pronounced  unique  among  college  exercises. 
Two  other  poems  of  this  period  were  "The  Choice  of 
Paris,"  and  "  The  Dirge  of  Wallace." 

When  Gait,  in  1833,  drew  up  his  autobiography,  he 
inserted  a  short  account  of  Campbell.  "  Campbell,"  says 
Gait,  "  began  his  poetical  career  by  an  Ossianic  poem, 
•which  his  '  schoolfellows  published  by  subscription,  at 
two-pence  apiece ; '  my  old  schoolfellow,  Dr.  Colin 
Campbell,  was  a  subscriber.  The  first  edition  of  '  The 
Pleasures  of  Hope '  was  also  by  subscription,  to  which  I 
was  a  subscriber."  When  this  was  shown  to  Campbell, 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL.  9 

by  Mr.  Macrone,  just  before  the  publication  of  the  book, 
the  poet's  bitterness  knew  no  bounds.  "He's  a  dirty 
blackguard,  sir,"  said  Campbell;  "and,  sir,  if  Mr.  Gait 
were  in  good  health,  I  would  challenge  him;  I  feel 
disposed  to  do  so  now,  the  blackguard."  "  What's  to  be 
done  ?  "  said  Macrone  ;  "  the  book  is  printed  off,  but  I  will 
cancel  it,  if  you  like."  Here  the  heading  of  the  chapter, 
"  A  Two-penny  Effusion,"  attracted  Campbell's  attention, 
and  his  thin,  restless  lips  quivered  with  rage.  "Look 
here,  sir,"  said  Campbell,  "look  what  the  dirty  black 
guard's  done  here ! "  and  he  pointed  to  the  words,  "  A 
Two-penny  Effusion."  Two  cancels  were  then  promised, 
and  the  soothed  and  irritated  poet  wrote  with  Ms  own 
hand  the  following  short  account  of  his  early  efforts :  — 
«« Campbell  began  his  poetical  career  by  an  Ossianic  poem, 
which  was  published  by  his  schoolfellows  when  he  was  only 
thirteen.  At  fifteen  he  wrote  a  poem  on  the  Queen  of 
France,  which  was  published  in  the  Glasgow  Courier. 
At  eighteen,  he  printed  his  Elegy  called  '  Love  and  Mad 
ness  ; '  and  at  twenty-one,  before  the  finishing  of  his 
twenty-second  year,  '  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.'  " 

Before  Campbell  had  recovered  his  usual  serenity  of 
mind,  and  before  the  ink  in  his  pen  was  well  dry,  who 
should  enter  the  shop  of  Messrs.  Cochrane  and  Macrone, 
but  the  poor  offending  author,  Mr.  Gait.  The  autobiog- 
rapher  was  on  his  way  home  from  the  Athenaeum,  and  the 
poet  of  "  Hope  "  on  his  way  to  the  Literary  Union.  They 
all  but  met.  Campbell  avoided  an  interview,  and  made 
his  exit  from  the  shop  by  a  side  door.  When  the  story 
•was  told  to  Gait,  he  enjoyed  it  heartily.  "  Campbell," 
said  Gait,  "  may  write  what  he  likes,  for  I  have  no  wish 
to  offend  a  poet  I  admire  ;  but  I  still  adhere  to  the  « two 
penny  effusion'  as  a  true  story." 

On  quitting  the  Glasgow  University,  Mr.  Campbell 
accepted  the  situation  of  a  tutor  in  a  family  settled  in 
Argyleshire.  Here  he  composed  a  copy  of  verses,  printed 
among  his  poems  on  the  roofless  abode  of  that  sept  of  the 


10  LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 

Clan  Campbell  from  which  he  sprung.  The  Lines  in 
question  are  barren  of  promise  —  they  flow  freely,  and 
abound  in  pretty  similitudes  ;  but  there  is  more  of  the  trim 
garden  breeze  in  their  composition,  than  the  fine  bracing 
air  of  Argyleshire. 

He  did  not  remain  long  in  the  humble  situation  of  a 
tutor,  but  made  his  way  to  Edinburgh  in  the  winter  of 
1798.  What  his  expectations  were  in  Edinburgh,  no  one 
has  told  us.  He  came  with  part  of  a  poem  in  his  pocket, 
and  acquiring  the  friendship  of  Dr.  Robert  Anderson,  and 
the  esteem  of  Dugald  Stewart,  he  made  bold  to  lay  his 
poem  and  his  expectations  before  them.  The  poem  in 
question  was  the  first  rough  draft  of  "  Pleasures  of  Hope." 
Stewart  nodded  approbation,  and  Anderson  was  all  rapture 
and  suggestion.  The  poet  listened,  altered,  and  enlarged  — 
lopped,  pruned,  and  amended,  till  the  poem  grew  much  as 
we  now  see  it.  The  first  fourteen  lines  were  the  last  that 
were  written.  "We  have  this  curious  piece  of  literary 
information  from  a  lady  who  knew  Campbell  well,  esteemed 
him  truly,  and  was  herself  esteemed  by  him  in  return. 
Anderson  always  urged  the  want  of  a  good  beginning,  and 
when  the  poem  was  on  its  way  to  the  printer,  again  pressed 
the  necessity  of  starting  with  a  picture  complete  in  itself. 
Campbell  all  along  admitted  the  justice  of  the  criticism, 
but  never  could  please  himself  with  what  he  did-  The 
last  remark  of  Dr.  Anderson's  roused  the  full  swing  of  his 
genius  within  him,  and  he  returned  the  next  day  to  the 
delighted  doctor,  with  that  fine  comparison  between  the 
beauty,  of  remote  objects  in  a  landscape,  and  those  ideal 
scenes  of  happiness  which  imaginative  minds  promise  to 
themselves  with  all  the  certainty  of  hope  fulfilled.  Ander 
son  was  more  than  pleased,  and  the  new  comparison  was 
made  the  opening  of  the  new  poem. 

"  At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  lulls  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky? 


LIFE     OJK     CAMPBELL.  11 

Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near? 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way ; 
Thus  from  afar,  each  dim-discover'd  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been  ; 
And  every  form  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there." 

There  is  a  kind  of  inexpressible  pleasure  in  the  very  task 
of  copying  the  Claude-like  scenery  and  repose  of  lines  so 
lovely. 

With  Anderson's  last  imprimatur  upon  it,  the  poem 
was  sent  to  press.  The  doctor  was  looked  upon  at  this 
time  as  a  whole  Willis's  Coffee-house  in  himself;  he 
moved  in  the  best  Edinburgh  circles,  and  his  judgment 
was  considered  infallible.  He  talked,  wherever  he  went, 
of  his  young  friend,  and  took  delight,  it  is  said,  in  con 
trasting  the  classical  air  of  Campbell's  verses  with  what  he 
was  pleased  to  call  the  clever,  homespun  poetry  of  Burns. 
Nor  was  the  volume  allowed  to  want  any  of  the  recom 
mendations  which  art  could  then  lend  it.  Graham,  a 
clever  artist  —  the  preceptor  of  Sir  David  Wilkie,  Sir 
William  Allan,  and  John  Burnet  —  was  called  in,  to  design 
a  series  of  illustrations  to  accompany  the  poem,  so  that 
when  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope "  appeared  in  May,  1799, 
it  had  every  land  of  attendant  bladder  to  give  it  a  balloon- 
waft  into  public  favor. 

All  Edinburgh  was  alive  to  its  reception,  and  warm  and 
hearty  was  its  welcome.  No  Scotch  poet,  excepting 
Falconer,  had  produced  a  poem  with  the  same  structure 
of  versification  before.  There  was  no  Sir  Walter  Scott  in 
those  days;  the  poet  of  "Marmion"  and  the  "Lay"  was 
only  known  as  a  modest  and  not  indifferent  translator  from 
the  German :  Burns  was  in  his  grave,  and  Scotland  was 
without  a  poet.  Campbell  became  the  Lion  of  Edinburgh. 
14  The  last  time  I  saw  you,"  said  an  elderly  lady  to  the 


12  LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 

poet  one  day,  within  our  hearing,  "  was  in  Edinburgh ; 
you  were  then  swaggering  about  with  a  Suwarrow  jacket." 
"  Yes,"  said  Campbell,  "  I  was  then  a  contemptible  puppy." 
"  But  that  was  thirty  years  ago,  and  more,"  remarked  the . 
lady.  "  Whist,  whist,"  said  Campbell,  with  an  admonitory 
finger,  "  it  is  unfair  to  reveal  both  our  puppyism  and  our 
years." 

If  the  poet's  friends  were  wise  in  giving  the  note  of 
preparation  to  the  public  for  the  reception  of  a  new  poem, 
they  were  just  as  unwise  in  allowing  Campbell  to  part 
with  the  copyright  of  his  poems  to  Mundell,  the  book 
seller,  for  the  small  sum  of  twenty  guineas.  Yet  twenty 
guineas  was  a  good  deal  to  embark  in  the  purchase  of  a 
poem  by  an  untried  poet :  and  when  we  reflect  that  Mun 
dell  had  other  risks  to  run  —  that  paper  and  print,  and 
above  all  the  cost  of  engravings,  were  defrayed  by  him  — 
we  may  safely  say,  that  he  hazarded  enough  in  giving 
what  he  gave  for  that  rare  prize  in  the  lottery  of  literature, 
a  remunerating  poem.  "We  have  no  complaint  to  make 
against  the  publisher.  Mundell  behaved  admirably  well, 
if  what  we  have  heard  is  true,  that  the  poet  had  fifty 
pounds  of  Mundell' s  free  gift  for  even-  after  edition  of  his 
poem.  Our  wonder  is,  that  Dr.  Anderson  and  Dugald 
Stewart  allowed  the  poet  to  part  with  the  copyright  of  a 
poem  of  which  they  spoke  so  highly,  and  prophesied  its 
success,  as  we  have  seen,  so  truly. 

I  have  never  had  the  good  fortune  to  fall  in  with  the 
first  edition  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  but  learn  from 
the  magazines  of  the  day,  that  several  smaller  poems, 
"  The  "Wounded  Hussar,"  "The  Harper,"  &c.,  were  ap 
pended  to  it.  The  price  of  the  volume  was  six  shillings, 
and  the  dedication  to  Dr.  Anderson,  is  dated  "  Edinburgh, 
April  13,  1799." 

I  have  often  heard  it  said,  and  in  Campbell's  lifetime, 
that  there  was  a  very  different  copy  of  the  "  Pleasures  of 
Hope,"  in  MS.,  in  the  hands  of  Dr.  Anderson's  family, 
Mid  I  once  heard  the  question  put  to  Campbell,  who  replied 


LIFE      OF     CAMPBELL.  13 

with  a  smile,  "  Oh  dear,  no  ;  nothing  of  the  kind."     The 
alterations   which    the  poem   underwent    by  Anderson's 
advice,  may  have  given  rise  ta-  a  belief  that  the  poem  was 
at  first  very  unlike  what  we  IIDW  see  it. 
It  was  said  of  Campbell,  th  it  by  the  time 

"His  hundred  of  gray  hairs 
Told  six-and-forty  years," 

he  was  unwilling  to  remember  the  early  attentions  of  Dr. 
Anderson.  He  certainly  cancelled  or  withdrew  the  dedica 
tion  of  his  poem  to  Dr.  Anderson,  and  this  is  the  only  act 
of  seeming  unkindness  to  Dr.  Anderson's  memory  which 
we  have  heard  adduced  against  him.  But  no  great  stress 
is  to  be  laid  on  this  little  act  of  seeming  forgetfulness.  He 
withdrew,  in  after-life,  the  dedication  of  "Lochiel"  to 
Alison,  whose  "Essay  on  Taste,"  and  early  friendship 
for  Campbell,  justified  the  honor ;  and  omitted  or  withdrew 
the  printed  dedication  of  "  Gertrude  of  "Wyoming,"  to  the 
late  Lord  Holland. 

As  soon  as  his  poems  had  put  money  in  his  pocket,  an 
early  predilection  for  the  German  language,  and  a  thirst 
for  seeing  some  of  the  continental  universities,  induced 
him  to  visit  Germany. 

He  set  sail  for  Hamburgh,  where,  struck  with  the  sight 
of  the  many  Irish  exiles  in  that  city,  he  strung  his  harp 
anew,  and  sung  that  touching  song,  "  The  Exile  of  Erin," 
which  will  endear  his  name  to  the  heart  of  every  honest 
Irishman.  On  his  road  from  Munich  to  Linz,  he  witnessed 
from  the  walls  of  a  convent  the  bloody  field  of  Hohen- 
linden,  (Dec.  3,  1800,)  and  saw  the  triumphant  French 
cavalry,  under  Moreau,  enter  the  nearest  town,  wiping 
their  bloody  swords  on  their  horses'  manes.  But  he  saw, 
while  abroad,  something  mere  than  "the  red  artillery" 
of  war ;  he  passed  a  day  -with  Klopstock,  and  acquired  the 
friendship  of  the  Schlegels. 

He  was  away  altogether  about  thirteen  months,  when  he 
2 


14  LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 

returned  to  Edinburgh,  to  make  arrangements  with  Mun- 
dell  about  the  publication,  in  London,  of  a  quarto  edition 
of  his  poems.  Mundell  granted  at  once  a  permission  which 
he  could  not  well  refuse,  and  Campbell  started  for  London 
by  way  of  Glasgow  and  Liverpool.  At- Liverpool  he  stayed 
a  week  with  the  able  and  generous  Dr.  Currie,  to  whom  he 
was  introduced  by  Dugald  Stewart.  Currie  gave  him  let 
ters  of  introduction  to  Mackintosh  and  Scarlett. 

"The  bearer  of  this,"  Dr.  Currie  writes  to  Scarlett,  "is 
a  young  poet  of  some  celebrity,  Mr.  Campbell,  the  author 
of  'The  Pleasures  of  Hope.'  He  was  introduced  to  me 
by  Mr.  Stewart,  of  Edinburgh,  and  has  been  some  days  in 
my  house.  I  have  found  him,  as  might  be  expected,  a 
young  man  of  uncommon  acquirements  and  learning,  of 
unusual  quickness  of  apprehension,  and  great  sensibility. 

"  He  is  going  to  London  with  the  view  of  superintend 
ing  an  edition  of  his  poems,  for  his  own  benefit,  by  the 
permission  of  the  booksellers  to  whom  the  copyright  was 
sold  before  the  work  was  printed  ;  and  who,  having  prof 
ited  in  an  extraordinary  degree  by  the  transaction,  have 
now  given  him  the  permission  above-mentioned,  on  condi 
tion  that  the  edition  shall  be  of  a  kind  that  shall  not  inter 
fere  with  their  editions.  He  is  to  give  a  quarto  edition, 
with  some  embellishments,  price  a  guinea ;  the  printing  by 
Bensley.  You  must  lay  out  a  fee  with  him ;  and  if  you 
can  do  him  any  little  service  you  will  oblige  me  and  serve 
a  man  of  genius." 

Currie' s  letter  is  dated  26th  February,  1802,  so  that  we 
may  date  Campbell's  arrival  in  London  (there  was  no  rail 
way  then)  on  or  about  the  first  of  March. 

"  When  Campbell  came  first  to  London,"  said  Tom  Hul, 
to  the  collector  of  these  imperfect  "Ana,"  "he  carried  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Perry,  of  the  Morning  Chron 
icle.  He  was  then  a  poor  literary  adventurer,  unfitted 
with  an  aim.  Perry  was  so  much  pleased  with  him  that 
he  offered  him  a  situation  on  his  paper,  which  Campbell 
thankfully  accepted.  But  what  could  Campbell  do?  he 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL.  15 

could  not  report,  and  he  was  not  up  to  the  art  of  writing 
leaders.  At  last  it  was  agreed  that  he  should  receive  two 
guineas  a  week,  and  now  and  then  contribute  a  piece  of 
poetry  to  the  corner  of  the  paper.  He  did  write,  certainly,' 
said  Hill,  "but  in  his  worst  vein.  We  know  what  news 
paper  poetry  is,  but  some  of  Campbell's  contributions  were 
below  newspaper  poetry  -  many  pieces  were  not  inserted, 
and  such  as  were  inserted  he  was  too  wise  to  print  among 
his  collected  poems."  Tom  Hill's  means  of  information 
were  first-rate ;  he  was,  moreover,  the  intimate  friend  of 
Perry,  and  Campbell's  neighbor  for  many  years  at  Syden- 
ham. 

The  quarto  edition  of  his  poems,  which  Campbell  was 
allowed  to  print  for  his  own  profit,  was  the  seventh.  This 
was  in  1803.  The  fourth  edition,  corrected  and  enlarged, 
was  printed  in  Glasgow  in  1800.  His  own  edition  is  a 
fine  specimen  of  Bensley's  printing;  but  the  engravings 
are  of  the  poorest  description  of  art. 

In  1803,  and  before  the  publication  of  his  subscription 
quarto,  he  printed,  anonymously,  at  Edinburgh,  and  at 
the  press  of  the  Ballantynes,  his  "Lochiel"  and  "  Hohen- 
linden."  The  title  is  simply  "  Poems,"  and  the  dedication 
is  addressed  to  Alison.  "  John  Leyden,"  says  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  "introduced  to  me  Tom  Campbell.  They  afterwards 
quarrelled.  When  I  repeated  '  Hohenlinden '  to  Leyden, 
he  said,  '  Dash  it,  man,  tell  the  fellow  I  hate  him,  but, 
dash  Mm,  he  has  written  the  finest  verses  that  have  been 
published  these  fifty  years.'  I  did  mine  errand  as  faith 
fully  as  one  of  Homer's  messengers,  and  had  for  answer, 
'  Tell  Leyden  that  I  detest  him ;  but  I  know  the  value  of 
his  critical  approbation.'  "  Scott  knew  "  Hohenlinden," 
by  heart ;  and  when  Sir  Walter  dined  at  Murray's  in  1800, 
he  repeated  at  the  table,  as  Wilkie  tells  us,  Campbell's 
poem  of  "  Lochiel." 

What  Campbell's  profits  or  expectations  were  at  this 
time,  I  have  never  heard.  When  a  poet  is  in  difficulties, 
he  is  sure,  said  William  Gifford,  to  get  married.  This  was 


16  LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 

Campbell's  case,  for  I  find  in  the  Scotch  papers,  and  among 
the  marriages  of  the  year  1803,  Jhe  following  entry :  "  llth 
Oct.,  at  St.  Margaret's  Church,  Westminster,  Thomas 
Campbell,  Esq.,  author  of  'The  Pleasures  of  Hope,'  to 
Miss  Matilda  Sinclair,  daughter  of  R.  Sinclair,  Esq.,  of 
Park  Street." 

The  fruit  of  this  marriage,  the  most  prudent  the  poet 
could  have  taken  at  that  time,  was  a  son,  born  at  Edin 
burgh  on  the  first  of  July,  1804,  Thomas  Telford  Campbell, 
a  helpless  imbecile,  still  alive.  If  there  was  any  one  point 
in  Campbell's  character  more  amiable  than  another,  it  was 
his  affection  for  his  son.  They  were  much  together ;  and, 
before  his  imbecility  became  confirmed,  it  was  a  touching 
sight  to  see  the  poet's  fine  eyes  wander  with  affection  to 
where  his  son  was  seated,  end,  at  any  stray  remark  he 
might  make  that  intimated  a  returning  intellect,  to  see 
how  his  eyes  would  brighten  with  delight,  and  foretell  the 
pleasures  of  a  father's  hope. 

In  the  volume  of  Johnson's  Scots  Musical  Museum  for 
1803,  there  is  a  song  of  Campbell's,  addressed  to  his  wife, 
when  Matilda  Sinclair.  It  is  in  no  edition  of  his  poems 
that  I  have  seen,  and  can  make  no  great  claim  for  preser 
vation,  beyond  any  little  biographical  importance  which  it 
may  bear. 

"O  cherub  Content,  at  thy  moss-covered  shrine 
I  would  all  the  gay  hopes  of  my  bosom  resign  ; 
I  would  part  with  ambition  thy  votary  to  be, 
And  breathe  not  a  vow  but  to  friendship  and  thee. 

"  But  thy  presence  appears  from  rny  pursuit  to  fly, 
Like  the  gold-colored  cloud  on  the  verge  of  the  sky. 
No  lustre  that  hangs  on  the  green  willow  tree 
Is  so  short  as  the  smile  of  thy  favor  to  me. 

"In  the  pulse  of  my  heart  I  have  nourished  a  care 
That  forbids  me  thy  sweet  inspiration  to  share ; 
The  noon  of  my  youth  slow  departing  I  see ; 
But  its  years  as  they  pass  bring  no  tidings  of  thee, 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL.  17 

14  O  cherub  Content,  at  thy  moss-covered  shrine 
I  would  offer  my  vows,  if  Matilda  were  mine ; 
Could  I  call  her  my  own,  whom  enraptured  I  see, 
I  would  breathe  not  a  vow  but  to  friendship  and  thee  " 


This  is  poor  poetry,  after  the  passionate  love-songs  of 
Burns,  in  the  earlier  volumes  of  the  same  publication. 

On  the  28th  of  October,  1806,  Campbell  had  a  pension 
granted  to  him  from  the  Crown,  payable  out  of  the  Scotch 
Excise,  of  one  hundred  and  eighty-four  pounds  a  year. 
It  was  Fox's  intention  to  have  bestowed  this  pension  upon 
Campbell,  but  that  great  statesman  died  on  the  13th  of 
the  preceding  month.  His  successors,  however,  saw  his 
wishes  carried  into  execution,  and  the  poet  enjoyed  his 
pension  to  the  day  of  his  death,  a  period  of  nearly  eight 
and  thirty  years. 

He  now  took  up  his  residence  in  the  small  hamlet  of 
Sydenham.  Here  he  compiled  his  "Annals  of  Great 
Britain,  from  the  Accession  of  George  III.  to  the  Peace 
of  Amiens"  —  forty  years  of  eventful  history,  compiled 
without  much  accuracy  of  information,  or  any  great 
elegance  of  style.  This  was  a  mere  piece  of  journey 
man's  work,  done  to  turn  a  penny.  Pew  have  heard  of 
it,  fewer  seen  it,  and  still  fewer  read  it.  The  most  intel 
ligent  bookseller  in  London  was,  a  week  ago,  unaware  of 
its  existence. 

Some  small  accession  of  fortune  about  this  time,  and  the 
glorious  certainty  of  a  pension,  enabled  him  to  think  seri 
ously  of  a  new  poem,  to  outstrip  his  former  efforts,  and 
add  another  stature  to  his  poetic  height.  As  soon  as  it 
was  known  that  the  celebrated  author  of  "The  Pleasures 
of  Hope  "  was  employed  upon  a  new  poem,  and  a  poem 
of  length,  expectation  was  on  tiptoe  for  its  appearance. 
The  information  first  got  wind  in  the  drawing-room  of 
Holland  House.  Then  the  subject  was  named  —  then  a 
bit  of  the  story  told  by  Lord  Holland,  and  a  verse  or  two 
quoted  by  Lady  Holland;  so  that  the  poem  had  every 
2* 


18 


LIFE      OF     CAMPBELL. 


advertisement  which  rank,  fashion,  reputation,  and  the 
poet's  own  standing,  could  lend  it.  The  story  was  liked 
—  then  the  metre  was  named  and  approved  —  then  a 
portion  shown ;  so  that  the  poet  had  his  coterie  of  fash 
ion  and  wit  before  the  public  knew  even  the  title  of  the 
poem  they  were  trained  up  to  receive  with  the  acclama 
tion  it  deserved. 

Nor  was  publin  expectation  disappointed,  when  it  became 
generally  known  that  the  poet  had  gone  to  the  banks  of 
the  Susquehanna  for  his  poem  —  had  chosen  the  desolation 
of  Wyoming  for  Ms  story,  and  the  Spenserian  stanza  for 
his  form  of  verse.  The  poet,  however,  was  still  timidly 
fearful,  though  he  had  the  imprimatur  of  Holland  House 
in  favor  of  his  poem.  I  was  told  by  Tom  Hill  that  Camp 
bell  sent  the  first  printed  copy  of  his  poem  to  Mr.  Jeffrey, 
(now  Lord  Jeffrey.)  The  critic's  reply  was  favorable. 
"Mrs.  Campbell  told  me,"  added  Hill,  "that,  till  he  had 
received  Jeffrey's  approbation,  her  husband  was  suffering, 
to  use  his  own  expression,  '  the  horrors  of  the  damned.'  " 

A  Whig  poet  was  safe  in  those  days,  when  in  the  hands 
of  a  Whig  critic.  He  had  more  to  fear  from  the  critical 
acumen  of  a  Tory  writer ;  but  only  one  number  of  the 
Quarterly  Review  had  then  appeared.  If  Gifford  had 
dissected  "  little  Miss  Gertrude,"  he  might  have  stopped 
the  sale,  for  a  time,  of  a  new  edition  ;  but  no  critical  fero 
city  could  have  kept  down  "  Gertrude  of  Wyoming  "  for 
more  than  one  season.  But  Gifford  was  prepossessed  in 
favor  of  Campbell ;  he  liked  his  versification  and  his  clas 
sical  correctness  ;  so  the  poem  was  intrusted  to  a  friendly 
hand  —  one  prepossessed,  like  Gifford,  in  his  favor  —  the 
greatest  writer  and  the  most  generous  critic  of  his  age  — 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 

No  poet  ever  dreaded  criticism  more  than  Campbell. 
"  Coleridge  has  attacked  « The  Pleasures  of  Hope,'  and 
all  other  pleasures  whatsoever,"  writes  Lord  Byron  ;  "Mr. 
Rogers  was  present,  and  heard  himself  indirectly  rowed 
by  the  lecturer.  Campbell  will  be  desperately  annoyed. 


LIFE      OF     CAMPBELL.  19 

I  never  saw  a  man  (and  of  him  I  have  seen  very  little)  so 
sensitive.  What  a  happy  temperament !  I  am  sorry  for 
it ;  —  what  can  he  fear  from  criticism  ?  " 

His  next  great  work  was  the  "  Specimens  of  the  British 
Poets,"  in  seven  octavo  volumes,  pxiblished  in  1819.  This 
was  one  of  Mr.  Murray's  publications,  and  one  of  his  own 
suggesting.  His  agreement  with  Campbell  was  for  £500, 
but  when  the  work  was  completed,  he  added  £500  more, 
and  books  to  the  value  of  £200,  borrowed  for  the  publica 
tion.  Such  fits  of  munificence  were  not  uncommon  with 
John  Murray ;  he  had  many  dealings,  and  dealt  fairly, 
straight-forwardly,  beyond  the  bounds  of  common  lib 
erality.  We  wish  we  could  say  the  same  of  Campbell  in 
this  transaction.  No  second  edition  of  the  "Specimens" 
was  called  for  before  1841 ;  and  when  Mr.  Murray,  in  that 
year,  determined  on  printing  the  whole  seven  volumes  in 
one  handsome  volume,  he  applied  to  Campbell  to  revise 
his  own  work,  and  made  him  at  the  same  time  a  handsome 
offer  for  the  labor  of  revision.  Campbell  declined  the  offer, 
and  set  his  face  at  first  against  the  publication.  What  was 
to  be  done  ?  There  was  a  demand  for  a  new  edition,  and 
it  had  been  a  piece  of  literary  madness  on  Mr.  Murray's 
part  if  he  had  sent  the  book  to  press  with  all  its  imperfec 
tions  on  its  head  —  not  the  imperfections,  be  it  understood, 
of  taste  and  criticism,  but  of  biographical  and  bibliograph 
ical  information.  Good  taste  can  never  change  —  it  is 
true  at  all  times  ;  but  facts,  received  as  such,  for  want  of 
better  information,  may  be  set  aside  by  any  dull  fact- 
monger  who  will  take  the  pains  to  examine  a  parish 
register,  a  bookseller's  catalogue,  or  a  will  in  Doctor's 
Commons. 

Mr.  Peter  Cunningham,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  was  called 
in  by  Mr.  Murray  to  superintend  the  reprint,  and  correct 
the  common  errors  of  fact  throughout  the  seven  volumes. 
Various  inaccuracies  were  removed ;  some  silently,  for  it 
had  been  burdening  the  book  with  useless  matter  to  have 
retained  them  in  the  text  and  pointed  them  out  in  a 


20 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 


note  ;  while  others,  that  entangled  a  thought  or  gave 
weight,  were  allowed  to  stand,  but  not  without  notes  to 
Btop  the  perpetuity  of  the  error.  A  quiver  of  rage  played 
upon  the  lips  of  the  poet  when  he  was  informed  that  any 
one  had  dared  to  revise  his  labors  :  but  when  he  saw  what 
was  done,  and  knew  the  friendly  hand  that  had  gone  with 
so  much  patient  care  through  the  whole  work,  he  expressed 
his  unfeigned  pleasure,  and,  as  we  have  heard,  thanked 
Mr.  Cunningham  for  his  useful  services. 

The  Essay  is  a  charming  piece  of  prose,  fresh  at  the 
fiftieth  reading,  and  the  little  prefatory  notices  abound  in 
delightful  criticism,  not  subtle  and  far-fetched,  but  char 
acteristically  true  to  the  genius  of  the  poet.  He  is  more 
alive  to  beauties  Ihan  defects,  and  has  distinguished  his 
criticism  by  a  wider  sympathy  with  poetry,  in  all  its 
branches,  than  you  will  find  in  any  other  book  of  English 
criticism.  Johnson  takes  delight  in  stripping  more  than 
one  leaf  from  every  laurel  —  he  laughs  at  Gray  —  Collins 
he  commends  coldly,  —  and  he  even  dares  to  abuse  Milton. 
Dryden  and  Pope,  the  idols  of  Dr.  Johnson's  criticism,  are 
the  false  gods  of  Southey's  :  — 

"Holy  at  Rome  —  here  Antichrist." 

Campbell  has  none  of  this  school  of  criticism  ;  he  loves 
poetry  for  its  own  sweet  sake,  and  is  no  exclusionist. 

The  great  fault  of  Campbell  is,  that  he  does  not  give 
the  best  specimens  of  his  authors  ;  but  such  pieces  as  Ellis 
and  Headley  had  not  given.  Of  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  he 
says,  "  Mr.  Ellis  has  exhausted  the  best  specimens  of  his 
poetry.  I  have  only  offered  a  few  short  ones."  No  one 
will  go  to  a  book  of  specimens  for  specimens  of  a  poet  in 
his  second-best  manner,  or  his  third-rate  mood.  We  want 
the  cream  of  a  poet,  not  the  skimmed-milk  of  his  genius. 
A  long  extract  from  Theodric  would  not  represent  Mr. 
Campbell's  manner  in  the  fiery  Hope,  or  the  more  gentle 
Gertrude.  Specimens  are  intended  for  two  classes  of  peo- 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL.  21 

ple>  —  one  who  cannot  afford  to  buy,  and  the  second  who 
do  not  care  to  possess,  the  British  Poets  in  one  hundred 
and  fifty  odd  volumes.  The  poor  want  the  best,  and  the 
other  class  of  purchasers  want  surely  not  the  worst. 

In  the  year  1820,  Mr.  Campbell  entered  upon  the  editor- 
sliip  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  which  he  conducted, 
we  are  told,  "with  a  spirit  and  a  resource  worthy  of  his 
reputation,  and  of  the  then  palmy  estate  of  periodical  lite 
rature."  We  doubt  this.  lie  drew  his  salary  regularly, 
it  is  true,  but  contributed  little  of  his  own  of  any  merit. 
The  whole  labor,  and  too  much  of  the  responsibility,  rested 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  assistant.  The  poet's  name  carried 
its  full  value  ;  the  Magazine  took  root  and  flourished,  and 
the  pay  per  sheet  was  handsome.  He  soon  drew  a  good 
brigade  of  writers  around  him ;  and  placing  implicit  con 
fidence  in  what  they  did,  and  what  they  could  do,  he  made 
his  editorship  a  snug  sinecure  situation.  "  Tom  Campbell," 
said  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "  had  much  in  his  power.  A  man 
at  the  head  of  a  Magazine  may  do  much  for  young  men  ; 
but  Campbell  did  nothing,  —  more  from  indolence,  I  fancy, 
than  disinclination  or  a  bad  heart." 

A  series  of  articles  appeared  in  the  New  Monthly  Mag 
azine,  when  Campbell  was  its  editor,  entitled  "  Boswell 
Redivivus,"  a  catch-penny  name,  given  by  Hazlitt  to  a 
collection  of  Northcote's  conversations  and  sayings,  uttered, 
as  was  urged,  by  Northcote,  in  all  the  confidence  of  friend 
ship.  An  ill-natured  saying  or  two  brought  the  painter 
into  trouble,  and  Northcote  wrote  to  Campbell,  complain 
ing  of  their  appearance,  in  a  letter  in  which  he  calls  Haz 
litt  a  wretch  who  had  betrayed  him.  Campbell's  answer 
is  a  striking  illustration  of  the  system  he  pursued  in  editing 
the  New  Monthly. 

« I  am  afflicted  beyond  measure,"   says  the  poet,  "  at 
finding  my  own  inattention  to  have  been  the  means  of 
wounding  the  feelings  of  a  venerable  man  of  genius.    Die 
tate  the  form  and  manner  of  my  attempting  to  atone  f 
having   unconsciously   injured   you,  if  I  can  make 


22 


LIFE     OF      CAMPBELL. 


atonement.  The  infernal  Hazlitt  shall  never  more  be 
permitted  to  write  for  the  New  Monthly.  I  mean  not  to 
palliate  my  own  want  of  watchfulness  over  the  Magazine, 
which  has  occasioned  such  a  paper  being  admitted.  I  only 
tell  you  the  honest  truth,  that  a  crisis  in  my  affairs,  which 
is  never  likely  to  occur  again,  fatally  tempted  me  this  last 
month  to  trust  the  revision  of  some  part  of  the  number  to 
the  care  and  delicacy  of  another  person ;  that  person,  like 
myself,  has  slept  over  his  charge." 

This  want  of  watchfulness  was,  we  fear,  a  monthly  fail 
ing,  not,  as  is  here  set  forth,  a  rare  occurrence. 

The  success  of  "Gertrude"  induced  him,  in  1824,  to 
put  forth  another  poem,  a  dramatic  tale,  entitled  "  Theod- 
ric."  A  silence  of  fifteen  years  put  expectation  upon  tip 
toe  ;  but  when  "  Theodric  "  appeared,  it  was  much  in  the 
condition  of  Jonson's  "  Silent  Woman,"  —  there  was  no 
one  to  say  plaudite  to  it.  The  wits  at  Holland  House  dis 
owned  the  bantling ;  the  Quarterly  called  it  "  an  unworthy 
publication,"  and  friend  joined  foe  in  the  language  of  con 
demnation.  Yet  Campbell  had  much  to  encounter :  he 
had  to  outstrip  his  former  efforts,  and  fight  a  battle  with 
the  public  against  expectation  and  the  applause  awarded 
to  his  former  poetry.  There  is  a  conscious  feeling  through 
out  the  poem  that  the  poet  is  fighting  an  unequal  battle  ; 
he  stands  up,  but  his  play  is  feeble,  he  distrusts  himself, 
and  is  only  tolerated  from  a  recollection  of  his  bygone 
powers. 

"I  often  wonder,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "how  Tom 
Campbell,  with  so  much  real  genius,  has  not  maintained  a 
greater  figure  in  the  public  eye  than  he  has  done  of  late." 
Scott  is  writing  in  1826.  "  The  magazine  seems  to  have 
paralyzed  him.  The  author  not  only  of  'The  Pleasures 
of  Hope,'  but  of  '  Hohenlinden,'  « Lochiel,'  etc.,  should 
have  been  at  the  very  top  of  the  tree.  Somehow  he  wants 
audacity,  fears  the  public,  and,  what  is  worse,  fears  the 
shadow  of  his  own  reputation."  *  .  *  *  "What  a  pity 
ft  is,"  said  Sir  Walter  to  Washington  Irving,  "  that  Camp- 


LITE     OF     CAMPBELL.  23 

bell  does  not  write  more  and  oftener,  and  give  full  sweep 
to  his  genius  I  He  has  wings  that  would  bear  him  to  the 
skies,  and  he  does,  now  and  then,  spread  them  grandly, 
but  folds  them  up  again,  and  resumes  his  perch,  as  if  he 
was  afraid  to  launch  away.  The  fact  is,  Campbell  is  in  a 
manner  a  bugbear  to  himself ;  the  brightness  of  his  early 
success  is  a  detriment  to  all  his  further  efforts.  He  is 
afraid  of  the  shadow  that  his  own  fame  casts  before  him." 

In  1827  he  was  elected  lord-rector  of  his  own  mother 
university  at  Glasgow.  He  was  elected  by  the  free  and 
unanimous  choice  of  the  students,  and  was  justly  proud 
of  his  election. 

"It  was  a  deep  snow,"  writes  Allan  Cunningham, 
"  when  we  reached  the  college-green ;  the  students  were 
drawn  up  in  parties,  pelting  one  another,  the  poet  ran  into 
the  ranks,  threw  several  snowballs  with  unerring  aim, 
then  summoning  the  scholars  around  him  in  the  hall, 
delivered  a  speech  replete  with  philosophy  and  eloquence. 
It  is  needless  to  say  how  this  was  welcomed." 

When  his  year  of  servitude  had  expired,  he  was  unan 
imously  ree'lectcd,  the  students  presenting  him  at  the  same 
time  with  a  handsome  silver  punch-bowl,  described  by  the 
poet  in  his  will  as  one  of  the  great  jewels  of  his  property. 

On  the  9th  of  May,  1828,  he  lost  his  wife.  This  was  a 
severe  blow  to  him.  She  was  a  clever  woman,  and  had 
that  influence  over  him  which  a  wife  should  always  have 
who  is  a  proper  helpmate  to  her  husband.  I  have  heard 
him  say,  and  with  much  emotion,  "  No  one  can  imagine 
how  much  I  was  indebted  to  that  woman  for  the  comforts 
of  life." 

In  1829  and  1830,  he  quarrelled  with  Colburn,  threw  up 
the  editorship  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  lending 
his  name  to  another  publisher,  started  a  magazine  called 
The  Metropolitan.  A  life  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  in 
two  octavo  volumes,  was  advertised,  with  Campbell's  name 
to  it,  about  the  same  time.  The  Life  was  soon  abandoned* 
and  the  new  magazine,  after  a  time,  transferred  to  Saundera 


24  LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 

and  Otley,  with  two  editors  instead  one,  Tom  Campbell 
and  his  friend  Tom  Moore.  The  after  history  of  the 
magazine  is  well  known  —  the  two  poets  retired,  and 
Marryat,  with  his  "Peter  Simple,"  gave  it  a  swing  of 
reputation  which  it  had  not  before. 

The  sorrows  of  Poland,  and  the  ebullitions  of  bad  verse, 
occupied  much  of  Campbell's  time  when  editor  of  The 
Metropolitan.  He  lived  in  the  Polish  Chambers,  and  all 
his  talk  was  Poland.  Cxartoryski  and  Nicmciewitx  were 
names  everlastingly  on  his  lips.  A  tale  of  a  distressed 
Pole  was  his  greeting  when  you  met,  and  an  alms  or  sub 
scription  the  chorus  of  his  song.  Boswell  was  not  more 
daft  about  Corsica  than  Campbell  about  Poland.  Poor 
Tom  Campbell,  he  exhausted  all  his  sympathy  on  the 
Poles,  and  spent  all  Ms  invectives  upon  Russia.  Yet  he 
did  good  —  he  was  the  means  of  assisting  many  brave  but 
unfortunate  men,  whilst  his  ravings  against  Russia  passed 
unheeded  by,  like  the  clamorous  outcries  for  liberty  of 
Akenside  and  Thomson. 

In  1834,  he  published,  in  two  octavo  volumes,  the  "  Life 
of  Mrs.  Siddons."  Our  great  actress  had  constituted 
Campbell  her  biographer,  and  Campbell  has  told  me,  more 
than  once,  that  he  considered  the  work  a  kind  of  sacred 
duty.  No  man  ever  went  to  his  task  more  grudgingly 
than  Campbell ;  and  no  man  of  even  average  abilities  ever 
produced  a  worse  biography  than  Campbell's  so  called 
"Life  of  Mrs.  Skldous."  The  Quarterly  called  it  "an 
abuse  of  biography,"  and  its  writer  "  the  worst  theatrical 
historian  we  have  ever  read."  Some  of  his  expressions  are 
turgid  and  nonsensical  almost  beyond  belief.  Of  Mrs. 
Pritchard  he  says,  that  she  "  electrified  the  house  with 
disappointment."  Upon  which  the  Quarterly  remarks, 
"This,  we  suppose,  is  what  the  philosophers  call  negative 
electricity." 

Since  Mr.  Campbell's  death,  Mr.  Dyce  has  addressed  a 
letter  to  the  editor  of  the  Literary  Ga/ette,  disclaiming  any 
partnership  in  the  composition  of  what  he  calls  "that 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 

unfortunate  book."  There  was  a  rumor  very  rife,  when 
the  book  appeared,  that  Mr.  Dyce  had  had  a  main-finger 
in  the  pie ;  but  the  gross  inaccuracies  of  the  work  gave 
the  best  answer  to  the  rumor.  Mr.  Dyce's  accuracy 
deserves  to  be  proverbial,  and  no  one  could  suspect  that 
he  could  have  had  a  hand  in  any  thing  like  «  a  very  large 
portion"  of  the  unfortunate  performance.  However,  in 
disclaiming  the  share  assigned,  he  lets  us  a  little  behind 
the  scenes  on  this  occasion.  We  see  Mrs.  Siddons  in  Tom 
Campbell's  tiring-room. 

"  Soon  after  Campbell  had  received  the  materials  which 
Mrs.  Siddons  had  bequeathed  to  him  for  her  biography,  he 
wrote  to  me  on  the  subject ;  informing  me,  that,  as  he  had 
a  very  slight  acquaintance  with  stage-history,  he  dreaded 
the  undertaking,  and  offering  me,  if  I  would  become  his 
coadjutor,  one  half  of  the  sum  which  E.  Wilson  was  to 
pay  him  for  the  work.     I  refused  the  money,  but  promised 
him  all  the  assistance  in  my  power.     He  next  forwarded 
to  me  his  papers,  consisting  chiefly  of  Mrs.  Siddons's  mem 
oranda  for  her  life,  and  a  great  mass  of  letters  which  she 
had  written,   at  various  intervals,  to  her  intimate  friend 
Mrs.  Fitz-Hughes.     Having  carefully  gone  over  the  whole, 
I  returned    them   with    sundry   illustrations  ;    and  sub 
sequently,  from  time  to  time,  I  sent  him  other  notes  which 
I  thought  might  suit  his  purpose.     As,  on  one  occasion,  he 
had  spoken  slightingly  of  the  letters  to  Mrs.  Fitz-Hughes, 
(calling  them  '  very  dull,'  and  saying  that  « the  mind  of 
Mrs.  Siddons  moved  in  them  like  an  elephant,')  and  was 
evidently  inclined  not  to  print  them,  I  strongly  urged  him 
by  no  jneans  to  omit  them,  since  they  appeared  to  me, 
though  a  little  pompous  in  style,  extremely  characteristic 
of  the  writer. 

"While  he  was  engaged  on  the  biography,  a  report 
reached  him  that  Mrs.  Jameson  was  about  to  publish 
Memoirs  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  that  Miss  Siddons  (now 
Mrs.  Combe)  had  furnished  her  with  many  anecdotes.  At 
this  he  was  excessively  angry ;  and  showed  me  a  letter 
3 


26  LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 

which  he  had  written  to  Miss  Siddons,  indignantly  com 
plaining  that  she  should  patronize  Mrs.  Jameson's  work, 
when  she  must  be  aware  that  he  had  been  specially  ap 
pointed  her  mother's  biographer.  As  the  letter  in  question 
was  perhaps  the  most  extraordinary  ever  addressed  by  a 
gentleman  to  a  lady,  I  entreated  him  to  throw  it  into  the 
fire  ;  but  he  positively  refused.  Whether  it  was*  eventually 
sent  or  not,  I  never  learned  :  if  it  was,  Mrs. -Combe  can  not 
have  forgotten  it.  He  ho.d  afterwards  some  communica 
tion  with  Mrs.  Jameson,  in  consequence  of  which  she 
abandoned  her  design."  * 

I  have  heard  Campbell  say,  that  a  little  girl  of  eleven 
would  write  better  letters  of  their  kind  than  any  half  dozen 
addressed  by  Mrs.  Siddons  to  Mrs.  Fitz-Hughes.  The 
poet  was  introduced  to  the  actress  by  Charles  Moore,  the 
brother  of  Sir  John  Moore. 

With  the  money  which  the  publication  of  a  bad  book 
brought  him,  Mr.  Campbell  set  off  for  Algiers.  He  told 
on  his  return  more  stories  than  Tom  Coryatt,  and  began  a 
series  of  papers  upon  his  travels  for  his  old  magazine,  the 
New  Monthly.  These  papers  have  since  been  collected 
into  two  volumes,  entitled,  "  Letters  from  the  South." 

His  subsequent  publications  were  a  "  Life  of  Shakspeare," 
a  poem  called  "The  Pilgrim  of  Glencoc,"  the  very  dregs 
and  sediment  of  his  dotage  ;  »  The  Life  and  Times  of 
Petrarch,"  concocted  from  Archdeacon  Coxe's  papers,  (a 
sorry  performance;)  and  "  Frederick '  the  Great  and  his 
Court  and  Times,"  a  publication  far  below  any  thing  which 
Smollett's  necessities  compelled  him  to  put  'his  name  to, 
and  only  to  be  equalled  by  the  last  exigencies  of  Elkanah 
Settle. 

In  1837,  he  published  his  poems,  in  one  handsome 
octavo  volume,  with  numerous  vignettes,  engraved  on 


•Literary  Gazette,  2~>d  June,  1*14.  Mr.  Dji-ts's  leiiur  is  -luted  the 
18th,  three  days  after  Campbell's  deaih  .\ili-r  I..-H  years  of  possessing 
hi*  soul  in  peace  — he  might  hasv  waited  a  Ihih-  Ii;n..,  r. 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL.  27 

steel,  from  designs  by  Turner;  but  Campbell  had  no 
innate  love  for  art,  and  his  illustrated  volume,  when  com 
pared  with  the  companion  volume  of  Mr.  Rogers,  is  but  a 
distant  imitation.  Mr.  Rogers,  it  is  true,  had  a  bank  at 
bis  back,  and  Campbell  had  little  more  than  Telford's 
legacy  of  £500  to  draw  upon ;  but  this  will  not  account 
for  the  difference,  which  we  are  to  attribute  altogether  to 
an  imperfect  understanding  of  the  beauties  and  resources 

of  art. 

When  Mr.  Campbell  accepted  the  editorship  of  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  he  forsook  his  favorite  Sydenham,  and 
leased  the  house  No.  10  Upper  Seymour-street,  West.     '. 
was  in  this  house  that  Mrs.  Campbell  died.    His  next 
remove  was  to  Middle  Scotland  Yard.     Here  he  gave  a 
large  evening  party,  and  then  grew  tired  of  his  house. 
Milton's  biographers  pursue  their  favorite  poet  through  all 
his  garden-houses  and  tenements  in  London :  I  am  afraid 
it  would  be  no  easy  task  to  follow  Campbell  through  the 
long  catalogue  of  his  London  lodgings,  for  the  last  fifteen 
years  of  his  life.     I  recollect  him  lodging  at  No  42  Eaton- 
street  ;  in  Stockbridge-terrace,  Pimlico  ;  in  Sussex  Cham 
bers,  Duke-street,  St.  James  ;  at  18  Old  Cavendish- street ; 
in  York  Chambers,  St.  James-street;  and  at  61  Lincoln's- 
Inn-Fields.    In  November,  1840,  he  again  set  up  house,  for 
the  sake  of  a  young  niece,  to  whom  he  has  bequeathed  the 
whole  of  his  little  property.    The  house  he  chose  was  No. 
8  Victoria-square,  and  here  he  made  his  will. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Mr.  Campbell  was  in  Regent-street, 
on  the  26th  of  September,   1843.    He  was  dressed  in  a 
light  blue  tail-coat,  with  gilt  buttons,  an  umbrella  tuck 
under  his  arm,  his  boots  and  trousers  all  dust  and  dirt,  a 
perfect  picture  of  mental  and  bodily  imbecility.     I  never 
saw  a  look  in  the  street  more  estranged  and  vacant ;  n 
the  vacancy  of  the  man  described  by  Dr.  Young,  «  whose 
thoughts  were  not  of  this  world,"  but  the  listless  gaze  c 
one  who  had  ceased  to  think  at  all.     I  could  not  help 
contrasting  to  mysc-li  the  poet's  present  with  his  past  ap- 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL. 

pearance,  as  described  by  Byron  in  his  Journal.  "  Camp, 
bell  looks  well,  seems  pleased,  and  dressed  to  sprucery. 
A  blue  coat  becomes  him,  so  does  his  new  wig.  He  really 
looks  as  if  Apollo  had  sent  him  a  birth- day  suit,  or  a  wed 
ding  garment,  and  was  witty  and  lively."  This  was  in 
1813,  in  Holland  House.  He  has  drawn  a  picture  of  him  • 
self  in  the  streets  of  Edinburgh,  when  the  "  Pleasures  of 
Hope  "  was  a  new  poem  ;  "  I  have  repeated  these  lines  so 
often,"  he  says,  "  on  the  North  Bridge,  that  the  whole 
fraternity  of  coachmen  know  me  by  tongue  as  I  pass.  To 
be  sure,  to  a  mind  in  sober,  serious,  street-walking  humor, 
it  must  bear  an  appearance  of  lunacy,  when  one  stamps 
with  the  hurried  pace,  and  fervent  shake  of  the  head, 
which  strong,  pithy  poetry  excites."* 

Mr.  Campbell  died  at  Boulogne,  on  the  15th  of  June, 
1844,  and  on  the  3d  of  July  was  buried  at  Poet's  Corner, 
about  one  foot  above  the  ground,  and  over  against  the 
monument  to  Shakspeare.  I  have  heard  that  he  had  a 
wish  to  be  buried  in  the  Abbey  —  a  wish  which  he  ex 
pressed  about  a  year  before  he  died,  at  a  time  when  a  dep 
utation  of  the  Glasgow  Cemetery  Company  waited  on  the 
poor  enfeebled  poet  to  beg  the  favor  of  his  body  for  their 
new  cemetery.  Who  will  say  that  Campbell  lived  unhon- 
ored  in  his  native  city  ? 

Mr.  Campbell  was  in  stature  small  but  well  made.  His 
eyes  were  very  fine,  and  just  such  eyes  as  Lawrence  took 
delight  in  painting,  when  he  drew  that  fine  picture  of  the 
poet  which  will  preserve  his  looks  to  the  latest  posterity. 
His  lips  were  thin,  and  on  a  constant  twitter  ;  —  thin  lipa 
are  bad  in  marble,  and  Chantrey  refused  to  do  his  bust 
because  his  lips  would  never  look  well.  He  was  bald,  I 
have  heard  him  say,  when  only  twenty-four,  and  since 
that  age  had  almost  always  worn  a  wig. 

There  was  a  sprucery  about  almost  every  thing  he  did. 
He  would  rule  pencil  lines  to  write  on,  and  complete  a 

*  Lockhan's  Life  of  Scott,  i.  342. 


LITE      OF      CAMPBELL.  29 

MS.  more  in  the  manner  of  Davies  of  Hereford  than  Tom 
Campbell.  His  wigs,  in  his  palmy  days,  were  true  to  the 
last  curl  of  studious  perfection. 

He  told  a  story  with  a  great  deal  of  humor,  and  had 
much  wit  and  art  in  setting  off  an  anecdote  that  in  other 
telling  had  gone  for  nothing.  The  story  of  the  mercantile 
traveller  from  Glasgow  was  one  of  his  very  "best,  and  his 
proposing  Napoleon's  health  at  a  meeting  of  authors  be 
cause  he  had  murdered  a  bookseller,  (Palm,)  was  rich  in 
the  extreme. 

Campbell  was  very  fond  of  forming  clubs  —  he  started 
a  poets'  club  at  his  own  table  at  Sydenham,  when  Crabbe, 
Moore,  and  Rogers  were  of  the  party.  "  We  talked  of- 
forming  a  poets'  club,"  writes  Campbell,  "  and  even  set 
about  electing  the  members,  not  by  ballot,  but  viva  voce. 
The  scheme  failed,  I  scarcely  know  how  ;  but  this  I  know, 
that,  a  week  or  so  afterwards,  I  met  with  Perry,  of  the 
Morning  Chronicle,  who  asked  me  how  our  poets'  club 
was  going  on.  I  said,  '  I  don't  know  —  we  have  some 
difficulty  in  giving  it  a  name  ;  we  thought  of  calling  our 
selves  The  Bees.'  «  Ah,'  said  Perry,  « that's  a  little  differ 
ent  from  the  common  report,  for  they  say  you  are  to  be 
called  The  Wasps.'  I  was  so  stung  with  this  waspish 
report,  that  I  thought  no  more  of  the  Poets'  Club." 
Whatever  merit  is  due  to  the  foundation  of  the  London 
University,  I  believe  belongs  by  right  to  Campbell :  he 
was  the  founder,  moreover,  of  the  Literary  Union,  an  ill- 
regulated  club  which  expired  in  the  spring  of  the  present 
season, 

'•  Uiuvillins' lo  outlive  the  yood  that  did  it,'' 

like  the  Ipswich  of  Wolsey,  as  described  by  Shakspeare. 

It  is  well  known  that  Campbell's  own  favorite  poem  of 
all  his  composition  was  his  "  Gertrude."  "  I  never  like  to 
see  my  name  before  « The  Pleasures  of  Hope ; '  why,  I 
can  not  tell  you,  unless  it  was  that,  when  young,  I  was 
always  greeted  among  my  friends  as  « Mr.  Campbell,  author 
3* 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL 

of  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.'  «  Good  morning  to  you,  Mr. 
Campbell,  author  of  The  Pleasures  of  Hope.'  When  I 
got  married,  I  was  married  as  the  author  of  '  The  Pleasures 
of  Hope  ; '  and  when  I  became  a  father,  my  son  was  the 
son  of  the  author  of  « The  Pleasures  of  Hope.'  "  A  kind 
of  grim  smile,  ill-subdued,  we  are  afraid,  stole  over  our 
features,  when,  standing  beside  the  poet's  grave,  we  read 
the  inscription  on  his  coffin  :  — 

"  THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  LL.  D., 

AUTHOR  OF  '  THE  PLEASURES  OP  HOPE,' 

DIED  JUNE  15,  1844, 

AGED  67." 

The  poet's  dislike  occurred  to  our  memory  —  there  was  no 
getting  the  better  of  the  thought. 

There  is  a  vigor  and  swing  of  versification  in  "  The 
Pleasures  of  Hope  "  unlike  any  other  of  Campbell's  com 
positions,  the  "  Lochiel "  excepted  :  yet  it  carries  with  it, 
as  Sir  Walter  Scott  justly  observes,  many  marks  of  juve 
nile  composition.  The  "  Lochiel "  has  all  the  faults  and 
all  the  defects  of  his  former  effort ;  and,  as  if  aware  of  a 
want,  he  sat  down,  when  busy  with  "  Gertrude  of  Wyom 
ing,"  to  amend  the  poem.  The  last  four  lines  originally 


"  Shall  victor  exult  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 

With  his  back  to  the  field  and  his  feet  to  the  foe ! 

And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 

Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame." 

A  noble  passage  nobly  conceived ;  but  hear  how  it  runs 
as  appended  to  the  first  edition  of  "  Gertrude  of  Wyom 
ing :"- 

"  Shall  victor  exult  in  the  battle's  acclaim, 

Or  look  to  yon  Heaven  from  fhe  death-bed  of  fame." 

The  poet  restored  the  original  reading  on  the  recommend- 


LIFE     OF     CAMPBELL.  31 

ation  of  Sir  Walter  Scott :  he  had  succeeded  in  squeezing 
the  whole  spirit  from  out  the  passage. 

I  remember  remarking  to  Campbell,  that  there  was  a 
couplet  in'  his  "  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  which  I  felt  an  inde 
scribable  pleasure  in  repeating  aloud,  and  filling  my  ears 
with  the  music  which  it  made  :  — 

"And  waft,  across  the  wave's  tumultuous  roar, 
The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaskai's  shore." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  tell  you  where  I  got  it  —  I  found  it  in 
a  poem  called  « The  Sentimental  Sailor,'  published  about 
the  time  of  Sterne's  '  Sentimental  Journey.' "  I  have 
never  been  able  to  meet  with  this  poem. 

Campbell  deserves  a  good  biography  and  a  good  monu 
ment.  His  own  works  want  no  recommendations,  but  his 
friends  may  do  much  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the 
man.  Surely  his  letters  deserve  collection,  and  his  corre 
spondence  should  not  be  suffered  to  perish  from  neglect. 
There  is  a  subscription  on  foot  to  erect  a  monument  to  his 
memory  in  Poets'  Corner.  This  is  as  it  should  be  —  but 
let  it  be  something  good.  We  have  more  than  enough  of 
bad  and  indifferent  in  the  Abbey  already. 


TR3 


PLEASURES     OF     HOPE. 

PART    I. 


ANALYSIS  — PART  I. 


THE  poem  opens  with  a  comparison  between  the  beauty  of  remote 
objects  in  a  landscape,  and  those  ideal  scenes  of  felicity  which  the 
imagination  delights  to  contemplate  —  the  influence  of  anticipation  upon 
the  other  passions  is  next  delineated  —  an  allusion  is  made  to  the  well- 
known  fiction  in  Pagan  tradition,  that,  when  all  the  guardian  deities  of 
mankind  abandoned  the  world,  Hope  alone  was  left  behind  —  the  conso 
lations  of  this  passion  in  situations  of  danger  and  distress  —  the  seaman 
on  his  watch  —  the  soldier  marching  into  battle  —  allusion  to  the  inter 
esting  adventures  of  Byron. 

The  inspiration  of  Hope,  as  it  actuates  the  efforts  of  genius,  whether 
In  the  department  of  science  or  of  taste  —  domestic  felicity  how  inti 
mately  connected  with  views  of  future  happiness  —  picture  of  a  mother 
watching  her  infant  when  asleep  —  pictures  of  the  prisoner,  the  maniac, 
and  the  wanderer. 

From  the  consolations  of  individual  misery  a  transition  is  made  to 
prospects  of  political  improvement  in  the  future  state  of  society  —  the 
wide  field  that  is  yet  open  for  the  progress  of  humanizing  arts  among 
uncivilized  nations  —  from  these  views  of  amelioration  of  society,  and 
the  extension  of  liberty  and  truth  over  despotic  and  barbarous  countries, 
by  a  melancholy  contrast  of  ideas,  we  are  led  to  reflect  upon  the  hard 
fate  of  a  brave  people  recently  conspicuous  in  their  struggles  for  inde 
pendence  —  description  of  the  capture  of  Warsaw,  of  the  last  contest 
of  the  oppressors  and  the  oppressed,  and  the  massacre  of  the  Polish 
patriots  at  the  bridge  of  Prague  —  apostrophe  to  the  self-interested 
enemies  of  human  improvement  —  the  wrongs  of  Africa  —  the  barba- 
rou*  policy  of  Europeans  in  India  — prophecy  in  the  Hindoo  mythology 
of  the  expected  descent  of  the  Deity  to  redress  the  miseries  of  their 
race,  and  to  take  vengeance  on  the  violators  of  justice  Wra  mercy. 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    HOPE 

PART    I. 


AT  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye, 
Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky  ? 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ?  - 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight,  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way ; 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim- discovered  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been. 
And  every  form,  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 


What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptured  eye 

To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 

Can  Wisdom  lend,  with  all  her  heavenly  power, 

The  pledge  of  Joy's  anticipated  hour  ? 

Ah,  no !  she  darkly  sees  the  fate  of  man  — 

Her  dim  horizon  bounded  to  a  span; 

Or,  if  she  hold  an  image  to  the  view, 

'Tis  Nature  pictured  too  severely  true, 


36  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

With  th.ee,  sweet  HOPE  !  resides  the  heavenly  light, 
That  pours  remotest  rapture  on  the  sight : 
Thine  is  the  charm  of  life's  bewildered  way, 
That  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play. 
"Waked  by  thy  touch,  I  see  the  sister  band, 
On  tiptoe,  watching,  start  at  thy  command, 
And  fly  where'er  thy  mandate  bids  them  steer, 
To  Pleasure's  path,  or  Glory's  bright  career.  t 

Primeval  HOPE,  the  Aonian  Muses  say, 

When  Man  and  Nature  mourned  their  first  decay ; 

When  evlry  form  of  death,  and  every  wo, 

Shot  from  malignant  stars  to  earth  below ; 

When  Murder  bared  her  arm,  and  rampant  War 

Yoked  the  red  dragons  of  her  iron  car ; 

When  Peace  and  Mercy,  banished  from  the  plain, 

Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heaven  again ; 

All,  all  forsook  the  friendless,  guilty  mind,  — 

But  HOPE,  the  charmer,  lingered  still  behind. 

Thus,  while  Elijah's  burning  wheels  prepare 
From  Carmel's  heights  to  sweep  the  fields  of  air, 
The  prophet's  mantle,  ere  his  flight  began, 
Dropped  on  the  world  —  a  sacred  gift  to  man. 

Auspicious  HOPE  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grow 
Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  wo ; 
Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour, 
The  way-worn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  summer  bower ; 
There,  as  the  wild  bee  murmurs  on  the  wing, 
What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid  spirits  bring  ! 
What  viewless  forms  th'  >3Eolian  organ  play, 
And  sweep  the  furrowed  lines  of  anxious  thought  away. 

) 

Angel  of  life  !  thy  glittering  wings  explore 
Earth's  loneliest  bounds,  and  Ocean's  wildest  shore. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  37 

Lo  !  to  the  wintry  winds  the  pilot  yields 

His  bark  careering  o'er  unfathomed  fields ; 

Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 

Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  western  star, 

With  meteor-standard  to  the  winds  unfurled, 

Looks  from  his  throne  of  clouds  o'er  half  the  world ! 

Now  far  he  sweeps,  where  scarce  a  summer  smiles 
On  Behring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  isles: 
Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blow, 
From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow ; 
And  waft,  across  the  wave's  tumultuous  roar, 
The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore. 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  storm, 
Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  manly  form ! 
Hocks,  waves,  and  winds,  the  shattered  bark  delay; 
Thy  heart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away. 

But  HOPE  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep, 
And  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep  : 
Swift  as  yon  streamer  lights  the  starry  pole, 
Her  visions  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul ; 
His  native  hills  that  rise  in  happier  climes, 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times, 
His  cottage  home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail, 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broomwood-blossomed  vale, 
Hush  on  his  thought;  he  sweeps  before  the  wind, 
Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sighed  to  leave  behind ; 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  flies  at  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace  ; 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture- speaking  tear  ! 
And  clasps,  with  many  a  sigh,  his  children  dear  ! 
While,  long  neglected,  but  at  length  caressed, 
His  faithful  dog  salutes  the  smiling  guest, 
Points  to  the  master's  eyes  (where'er  they  roam) 
His  wistful  face,  and  whines  a  welcome  home. 
4 


38  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Friend  of  the  brave !  in  peril's  darkest  hour, 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power ; 
To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields, 
On  stormy  floods,  and  carnage-covered  fields, 
When  front  to  front  the  bannered  hosts  combine, 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line. 
When  all  is  still  on  Death's  devoted  soil, 
The  march- worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil ! 
As  rings  his  glittering  tube,  he  lifts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow,  and  spirit-speaking  eye, 
Hails  in  Ms  heart  the  triumph  yet  to  come, 
And  hears  thy  stormy  music  in  the  drum ! 


And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore  — 
In  horrid  climes,  where  Chiloc's  tempests  sweep 
Tumultuous  murmurs  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
'Twas  his  to  mourn  Misfortune's  rudest  shock, 
Scourged  by  the  winds,  and  cradled  on  the  rock, 
To  wake  each  joyless  morn  and  search  again 
The  famished  haunts  of  solitary  men ; 
Whose 'race,  unyielding  as  their  native  storm, 
Know  not  a  trace  of  Nature  but  the  form : 
Yet,  at  thy  call,  the  hardy  tar  pursued, 
Pale,  but  intrepid,  sad,  but  unsubdued, 
Pierced  the  deep  woods,  and  hailing  from  afar 
The  moon's  pale  planet  and  the  northern  star, 
Paused  at  each  dreary  cry,  xmheard  before, 
Hyaenas  in  the  wild,  and  mermaids  on  the  shore; 
Till,  led  by  thee  o'er  many  a  cliff  sublime, 
He  found  a  warmer  world,  a  milder  clime, 
A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend, 
Peace  and  repose,  a  Briton  and  a  friend  ! 


Congenial  HOPE  !  thy  passion-kindling  power, 

How  bright,  how  strong,  in  youth's  untroubled  hour; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  39 

On  yon  proud  height,  with  Genius  hand  in  hand, 
I  see  thee  light,  and  wave  thy  golden  wand. 

"  Go,  child  of  Heaven  !  (thy  winged  words  proclaim) 
Tis  thine  to  search  the  boundless  fields  of  fame  ! 
Lo  !  Newton,  priest  of  nature,  shines  afar, 
Scans  the  wide  world,  and  numbers  every  star ! 
Wilt  thou,  with  him,  mysterious  rites  apply, 
And  watch  the  shrine  with  wonder-beaming  eye? 
Yes,  thou  shalt  mark,  with  magic  art  profound, 
The  speed  of  light,  the  circling  march  of  sound ; 
With  Franklin  grasp  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heaven  another  string. 

"The  Swedish  sage  admires,  in  yonder  bowers, 
His  winged  insects,  and  his  rosy  flowers ; 
Calls  from  their  woodland  haunts  the  savage  train, 
With  sounding  horn,  and  counts  them  on  the  plain  — 
So  once,  at  Heaven's  command,  the  wanderers  came 
To  Eden's  shade,  and  heard  their  various  name. 

"  Far  from  the  world,  in  yon  sequestered  clime, 
Slow  pass  the  sons  of  Wisdom,  more  sublime ; 
Calm  as  the  fields  of  Heaven,  his  sapient  eye 
The  loved  Athenian  lifts  to  realms  on  high, 
Admiring  Plato,  on  his  spotless  page 
Stamps  the  bright  dictates  of  the  Father  sage : 
«  Shall  Nature  bound  to  Earth's  diurnal  span 
The  fire  of  God,  th'  immortal  soul  of  man  ? ' 

"  Turn,  child  of  Heaven,  thy  rapture-lightened  eye 
To  Wisdom's  walks,  the  sacred  Nine  are  nigh : 
Hark  !   from  bright  spires  that  gild  the  Delphian,  height, 
From  streams  that  wander  in  eternal  light, 
Ranged  on  their  hill,  Harmonia's  daughters  swell 
The  mingling  tones  of  horn,  and  harp,  and  shell ; 


40  c A M^> BELL'S    POEMS. 

Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow, 
And  Pythia's  awful  organ  peals  below. 

"  Beloved  of  Heaven  !   the  smiling  Muse  shall  shed 
Her  moonlight  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head ; 
Shall  swell  thy  heart  to  rapture  unconfined, 
And  breathe  a  holy  madness  o'er  thy  mind. 
I  see  thee  roam  her  guardian  power  beneath, 
And  talk  with  spirits  on  the  midnight  heath ; 
Inquire  of  guilty  wanderers  whence  they  came, 
And  ask  each  blood-stained  form  his  earthly  name; 
Then  weave  in  rapid  verse  the  deeds  they  tell, 
And  read  the  trembling  world  the  tales  of  hell. 

"When  Venus,  throned  in  clouds  of  rosy  hue, 
Flings  from  her  golden  urn  the  vespjer  dew, 
And  bids  fond  man  her  glimmering  noon  employ, 
Sacred  to  love,  and  walks  of  tender  joy; 
A  milder  mood  the  goddess  shall  recall, 
And  soft  as  dew  thy  tones  of  music  fall ; 
While  Beauty's  deeply-pictured  smiles  impart 
A  pang  more  dear  than  pleasure  to  the  heart  — 
Warm  as  thy  sighs  shall  flow  the  Lesbian  strain, 
And  plead  in  Beauty's  ear,  nor  plead  in  vain. 

"Or  wilt  thou  Orphean  hymns  more  sacred  deem, 
And  steep  thy  song  in  Mercy's  mellow  stream; 
To  pensive  drops  the  radiant  eye  beguile  — 
For  Beauty's  tears  are  lovelier  than  her  smile ;  — 
On  Nature's  throbbing  anguish  pour  relief, 
And  teach  impassioned  souls  the  joy  of  grief? 

"  Yes ;   to  thy  tongue  shall  seraph  words  be  given, 
And  power  on  earth  to  plead  the  cause  of  Heaven; 
The  proud,  the  cold  untroubled  heart  of  stone, 
That  never  mused  on  sorrow  but  its  own, 


S     F  O  £  M  S  .  41 

Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command, 
Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand. 
The  living  lumber  of  his  kindred  earth, 
Charmed  into  soul,  receives  a  second  birth, 
Feels  thy  dread  power  another  heart  afford, 
Whose  passion-touched  harmonious  strings  accord 
•True  as  the  circling  spheres  to  Nature's  plan ; 
And  man,  the  brother,  lives  the  friend  of  man. 

"Bright  as  the  pillar  rose  at  Heaven's  command, 
When  Israel  marched  along  the  desert  land, 
Blazed  through  the  night  on  lonely  wilds  afar, 
And  told  the  path,  —  a  never-setting  star  : 
So,  heavenly  Genius,  in  thy  course  divine, 
HOPE  is  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever  thine. 

Propitious  power  !    when  rankling  cares  annoy 
The  sacred  home  of  Hymenean  joy ; 
When  doomed  to  Poverty's  sequestered  dell, 
The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell. 
Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame, 
Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the  same ; 
Oh,  there,  prophetic  HOPE  !    thy  smile  bestow, 
And  chase  the  pangs  that  worth  should  never  know  { 
There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 
To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more, 
Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 
Their  father's  wrongs,  and  shield  his  latter  age. 
What  though  for  him  no  Hybla  sweets  distil, 
Nor  bloomy  vines  wave  purple  on  the  hill ; 
Tell,  that  when  silent  years  have  passed  away, 
That  when  his  eye  grows  dim,  his  tresses  gray, 
These  busy  hands  a  lovelier  cot  shall  build, 
And  deck  with  fairer  flowers  his  little  field, 
And  call  from  Heaven  propitious  dews  to  breathe 
Arcadian  beauty  on  the  barren  heath ; 
4*       •  • 


42  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Tell,  that  while  Love's  spontaneous  smile  endears 
The  days  of  peace,  the  Sabbath  of  his  years, 
Health  shall  prolong  to  many  a  festive  hour 
The  social  pleasures  of  his  humble  bower. 

Lo  !    at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps, 
Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps ; 
She,  wliile  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lies, 
Smiles  on  her  slumbering  cliild  with  pensive  eyes, 
And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy  — 
"Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy; 
No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine ; 
No  sigh  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine ; 
Bright  as  his  -manly  sire  the  son  shall  be 
In  form  and  soul ;  but,  ah !   more  blest  than  he ! 
Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love  at  last, 
Shall  soothe  his  aching  heart  for  all  the  past  — 
With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 
And  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away. 

"  And  say,  when  summoned  from  the  world  and 
I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree, 
Wilt  thou,  sweet  mourner  !    at  my  stone  appear, 
And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near  ? 
Oh,  wilt  thou  come  at  evening  hour  to  shed 
The  tears  of  memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed; 
With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclined, 
Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind, 
Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low, 
And  think  on  all  my  love,  and  all  my  \ro  ? " 

So  speaks  affection,  ere  the  infant  eye 
Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply; 
But  when  the  cherub  lip  hath  learnt  to  claim 
A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name ; 
Soon  as  the  playful  innocent  can  prove 
A  tear  of  pity,  or  a  smile  of  love, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  43 

Or  cons  his  murmuring  -task  beneath  her  care, 
Or  lisps  with  holy  look  his  evening  prayer, 
Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive,  sits  to  hear 
The  mournful  ballad  warbled  in  his  ear ; 
How  fondly  looks  admiring  HOPE  the  while, 
At  every  artless  tear,  and  every  smile  ! 
How  glows  the  joyous  parent  to  descry 
A  guileless  bosom,  true  to  sympathy  ! 

Where  is  the  troubled  heart  consigned  to  share 
Tumultuous  toils,  or  solitary  care, 
Unblest  by  visionary  thoughts  that  stray 
To  count  the  joys  of  Fortune's  better  day  ? 
Lo,  nature,  life,  and  liberty  relume 
The  dim-eyed  tenant  of  the  dungeon  gloom, 
A  long-lost  friend,  or  hapless  child  restored, 
Smiles  at  his  blazing  hearth  and  social  board ; 
"Warm  from  his  heart  the  tears  of  rapture  flow, 
And  virtue  triumphs  o'er  remembered  wo. 

Chide  not  his  peace,  proud  Reason !  nor  destroy 

The  shadowy  forms  of  uncreated  joy, 

That  urge  the  lingering  tide  of  life,  and  pour 

Spontaneous  slumber  on  his  midnight  hour. 

Hark !   the  wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gale 

That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail; 

She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wintry  shore, 

Watched  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  corse  that  bore, 

Knew  the  pale  form,  and,  shrieking  in  amaze, 

Clasped  her  cold  hands,  and  fixed  her  maddening  gaze : 

Poor  widowed  wretch  !   'twas  there  she  wept  in 

Till  Memory  fled  her  agonizing  brain ;  — 

But  mercy  gave,  to  charm  the  sense  of  wo, 

Ideal  peace,  that  truth  could  ne'er  bestow ; 

Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam, 

And  aimless  HOPE  delights  her  darkest  dream. 


*4  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Oft  when  yon  moon  has  climbed  the  midnight  sky, 

And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry, 

Piled  on  the  steep,  her  blazing  fagots  burn 

To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return ; 

And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep 

That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep. 

And,  mark  the  wretch,  whose  wanderings  never  knew 
The  world's  regard,  that  soothes,  though  half  untrue; 
Whose  erring  heart  the  lash  of  sorrow  bore, 
But  found  not  pity  when  it  erred  no  more. 
Yon  friendless  man,  at  whose  dejected  eye 
Th'  unfeeling  proud  one  looks  — and  passes  by, 
Condemned  on  Penury's  barren  path  to  roam, 
Scorned  by  the  world,  and  left  without  a  home  — 
Even  he,  at  evening,  should  he  chance  to  stray 
Down  by  the  hamlet's  hawthorn-scented  way, 
Where,  round  the  cot's  romantic  glade,  are  seen 
The  blossomed  bean-field,  and  the  sloping  green, 
Leans  °'er  its  humble  gate,  and  thinks  the  while  — 
Oh !   that  for  me  some  home  like  this  would  smile, 
Some  hamlet  shade,  to  yiekl  my  sickly  form 
Health  in  the  breeze,  and  slielter  in  the  storm  ! 
There  should  my  hand  no  stinted  boon  assign 
To  wretched  hearts  with  sorrow  such  as  mine ! 
That  generous  wish  can  soothe  unpitied  care, 
And  HOPE  half  mingles  with  the  poor  man's  prayer. 

HOPE  !    when  I  mourn,  with  sympatliizing  mind, 
The  wrongs  of  fate,  the  woes  of  human  kind, 
Thy  blissful  omens  bid  my  spirit  see 
The  boundless  fields  of  rapture  yet  to  be; 
I  watch  the  wheels  of  Nature's  mazy  plan, 
And  learn  the  future  by  the  past  of  man. 

v  *  * 

Come,  bright  Improvement !    on  the  car  of  Time, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  45 

Thy  handmaid  arts  shall  every  wild  explore, 
Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. 
On  Erie's  banks,  where  tigers  steal  along, 
And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song, 
Where  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  walk, 
And  bathe  in  brains  the  murderous  tomahawk, 
There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray, 
And  shepherds  dance  at  Summer's  opening  day : 
Each  wandering  genius  of  the  lonely  glen 
Shall  start  to  view  the  glittering  haunts  of  men, 
And  silent  watch,  on  woodland  heights  around, 
The  village  curfew  as  it  tolls  profound. 

In  Libyan  groves,  where  damned  rites  are  done, 
That  bathe  the  rocks  in  blood,  and  veil  the  sun, 
Truth  shall  arrest  the  murderous  arm  profane, 
Wild  Obi  flies  —  the  veil  is  rent  in  twain. 

Where  barbarous  hordes  on  Scythian  mountains  roam, 
Truth,  Mercy,  Freedom,  yet  shall  find  a  home; 
Where'er  degraded  Nature  bleeds  and  pines, 
From  Guinea's  coast  to  Sibir's  dreary  mines, 
Truth  shall  pervade  th'  unfathomed  darkness  there, 
And  light  the  dreadful  featxires  of  despair  — 
Hark !  the  stern  captive  spurns  his  heavy  load, 
And  asks  the  image  back  that  Heaven  bestowed ! 
Fierce  in  his  eye  the  fire  of  valor  burns, 
And,  as  the  slave  departs,  the  man  returns. 

Oh !   sacred  Truth !   thy  triumph  ceased  a  while, 
And  HOPE,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagued  Oppression  poured  to  Northern  wars 
Her  whiskered  pandoors  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Pealed  her  loud  drum,  and  twanged  her  trumpet  horn  { 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland  —  and  to  man  ! 


46  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  surveyed, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid ; 
Oh,  Heaven  !   he  cried,  my  bleeding  country  save ! 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains, 
Rise,  fellow  men  !    our  country  yet  remains  ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high  ! 
And  swear  for  her  to  live  —  with  her  to  die  ! 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  arrayed 
His  trusty  warriors  few,  but  undismayed ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge,  or  death,  —  the  watchword  and  reply ; 
Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm ! 

In  vain,  alas  !    in  vain,  ye  gallant  few  ! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew ; 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  wo  ! 
Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career; 
HOPE,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked  —  as  KOSKIUSCO  fell  ! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there, 
Tumultuous  Murder  shook  the  midnight  air  — 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fires  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  away, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay! 
Hark !   as  the  smouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  47 

Earth  shook  — red  meteors  flashed  along  the  sky, 
And  conscious  Nature  shuddered  at  the  cry! 

Oh !   righteous  Heaven ;   ere  Freedom  found  a  grave, 
Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save? 
Where  was  thine  arm,  O  Vengeance !   where  thy  rod. 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God; 
That  crushed  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath,  and  thundered  from  afar  ? 
Where  was  the  storm  that  slumbered  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stained  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast; 
Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  now, 
And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below  ? 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 

Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Lcucjia  bled  ! 

Friends  of  the  world  !    restore  your  swords  to  man, 

Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van  ! 

Yet  for  Sarmatia's  tears  of  blood  atone, 

And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own  ! 

Oh !    once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 

The  patriot  TELL— the  BRUCE  OF  BANNOCKBURN  ! 

Yes  !    thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land  !    shall  see 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul  —  and  dare  be  free  1 
A  little  while,  along  thy  saddening  plains, 
The  starless  night  of  Desolation  reigns  ; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  given, 
And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heaven  ; 
Prone  to  the  dtist  Oppression  shall  be  hurled, 
Her  name,  her  nature,  withered  from  the  world  ! 

Ye  that  the  rising  morn  invidious  mark, 

And  hate  the  light  —  because  your  deeds  are  dark ; 

Ye  that  expanding  truth  invidious  view, 

And  think,  or  wish,  the  song  of  HOPE  untrue ; 


48  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Perhaps  your  little  hands  presume  to  span 
The  march  of  Genius  and  the  powers  of  man ; 
Perhaps  ye  watch,  at  Pride's  unhallowed  shrine, 
Her  victims,  newly  slain,  and  thus  divine :  — 
"Here  shall  thy  triumph,  Genius,  cease,  and  here 
Truth,  Science,  Virtue,  close  your  short  career." 

Tyrants  !   in  vain  ye  trace  the  wizard  ring ; 

In  vain  ye  limit  Mind's  unwearied  spring : 

What !   can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 

Arrest  the  rolling  world,  or  chain  the  deep? 

No  !  —  the  wild  wave  contemns  your  sceptred  hand  • 

It  rolled  not  back  when  Canute  gave  command ! 

Man !   can  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow  ? 
Still  must  thou  live  a  blot  on  Nature's  brow? 
Shall  War's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  furled  ? 
Shall  crimes  and  tyrants  cease  but  with  the  world? 
What !    are  thy  triumphs,  sacred  Truth,  belied  ? 
Why  then  hath  Plato  lived,  or  Sidney  died  ? 

Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 

Who  warm  at  Scipio's  worth,  or  Tully's  name  ! 

Ye  that,  in  fancied  vision,  can  admire 

The  sword  of  Brutus,  and  the  Theban  lyre  ! 

Rapt  in  historic  ardor,  who  adore 

Each  classic  haunt,  and  well-remembered  shore. 

Where  Valor  tuned,  amidst  her  chosen  throng, 

The  Thracian  trumpet  and  the  Spartan  song ; 

Or,  wandering  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 

Of  England's  glory,  and  Helvetia's  arms  ! 

See  Roman  fire  in  Hampden's  bosom  swell, 

And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

Say,  ye  fond  zealots  to  the  worth  of  yore, 

Hath  Valor  left  the  world  —  to  live  no  more  ? 

No  more  shall  Brutus  bid  a  tyrant  die, 

And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

Hampden  no  more,  when  suffering  Freedom  calls, 
Encounter  Fate,  and  triumph  as  he  falls  ? 
Nor  Tell  disclose,  through  peril  and  alarm, 
The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm? 

Yes!   in  that  generous  cause,  forever  strong, 
The  patriot's  virtue  and  the  poet's  song, 
Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away, 
Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay ! 

Yes!   there  are  hearts,  prophetic  HOPE  may  trust, 
That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  dust, 
Ordained  to  fire  th'  adoring  sons  of  earth, 
With  every  charm  of  wisdom  and  of  worth ; 
Ordained  to  light,  with  intellectual  day, 
The  mazy  wheels  of  nature  as  they  play, 
Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow, 
4nd  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below. 

And  say,  supernal  Powers  !   who  deeply  scan 
Heaven's  dark  decrees,  unfathomed  yet  by  man, 
When  shall  the  world  call  down,  to  cleanse  her 
That  embryo  spirit,  yet  without  a  name, — 
That  friend  of  Nature,  whose  avenging  hands 
Shall  burst  the  Libyan's  adamantine  bands  ? 
Who,  sternly  marking  on  his  native  soil 
The  blood,  the  tears,  the  anguish,  and  the  toil, 
Shall  bid  each  righteous  heart  exult,  to  see 
Peace  to  the  slave,  and  vengeance  on  the  free! 

Yet,  yet,  degraded  men  !   th'  expected  day 
That  breaks  your  bitter  cup,  is  far  away; 
Trade,  wealth,  and  fashion,  ask  you  still  to  bleed, 
And  holy  men  give  Scripture  for  the  deed ; 
Scourged  and  debased,  no  Briton  stoops  to  save  — 
A.  wretch,  a  coward  ?  yes,  because  a  slave  I 
5 


50  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Eternal  Nature !   when  thy  giant  hand 

Had  heaved  the  floods,  and  fixed  the  trembling  land; 

When  life  sprang  startling  at  thy  plastic  call, 

Endless  her  forms,  and  man  the  lord  of  all ! 

Say,  was  that  lordly  form  inspired  by  thee, 

To  wear  eternal  chains  and  bow  the  knee? 

Was  man  ordained  the  slave  of  man  to  toil, 

Yoked  with  the  brutes,  and  fettered  to  the  soil ; 

Weighed  in  a  tyrant's  balance  with  his  gold  ? 

No  !  —  Nature  stamped  us  in  a  heavenly  mould ! 

She  bade  no  wretch  his  thankless  labor  urge, 

Nor,  trembling,  take  the  pittance  and  the  scourge ; 

No  homeless  Libyan,  on  the  stormy  deep, 

To  call  upon  his  country's  name,  and  weep ! 

Lo!    once  in  triumph,  on  his  boundless  plain, 
The  quivered  chief  of  Congo  loved  to  reign ; 
With  fires  proportioned  to  his  native  sky, 
Strength  in  his  arm,  and  lightning  in '  his  eye ; 
Scoured  with  wild  feet  his  sun-illumined  zone, 
The  spear,  the  lion,  and  the  woods,  his  own ! 
Or  led  the  combat,  bold  without  a  plan, 
An  artless  savage,  but  a  fearless  man  ! 

The  plunderer  came  !  —  alas  !   no  glory  smiles 
For  Congo's  chief,  on  yonder  Indian  isles ; 
Forever  fall'n  !  —  no  son  of  Nature  now, 
With  Freedom  chartered  on  his  manly  brow  ! 
Faint,  bleeding,  bound,  he  weeps  the  night  away, 
And  when  the  sea- wind  wafts  the  dewless  day, 
Starts,  with  a  bursting  heart,  for  evermore 
To  curse  the  sun  that  lights  their  guilty  shore  ! 

The  shrill  horn  blew ;   at  that  alarum  knell 
His  guardian  angel  took  a  last  farewell ! 
That  funeral  dirge  to  darkness  hath  resigned 
The  fiery  grandeur  of  a  generous  mind ! 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  51 

Poor  fettered  man !  I  hear  thee  whispering  low 
Unhallowed  vows  to  Guilt,  the  child  of  Wo  ! 
Friendless  thy  heart;  and  canst  thou  harbor  theie 
A  wish  but  death  —  a  passion  but  despair  ? 

The  widowed  Indian,  when  her  lord  expires, 
Mounts  the  dread  pile,  and  braves  the  funeral  fires ! 
So  falls  the  heart  at  Thraldom's  bitter  sigh! 
So  Virtue  dies,  the  spouse  of  Liberty  ! 

But  not  to  Libya's  barren  climes  alone, 
To  Chili,  or  the  wild  Siberian  zone, 
Belong  the  wretched  heart  and  haggard  eye, 
Degraded  worth,  and  poor  misfortune's  sigh ! 
Ye  orient  realms,  where  Ganges'  waters  run  ! 
Prolific  fields !  dominions  of  the  sun  ! 
How  long  your  tribes  have  trembled  and  obeyed? 
How  long  was  Timour's  iron  sceptre  swayed, 
Whose  marshalled  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  plain, 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main, 
Raged  o'er  your  plundered  shrines  and  altars  bare, 
With  blazing  torch  and  gory  cimeter,  — 
Stunned  with  the  cries  of  death  each  gentle  gale, 
And  bathed  in  blood  the  verdure  of  the  vale  ! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame, 
WLen  Brama's  children  perished  for  his  name, 
The  martyr  smiled  beneath  avenging  power, 
And  braved  the  tyrant  hi  his  torturing  hour ! 

When  Europe  sought  your  subject  realms  to  gain, 
And  stretched  her  giant  sceptre  o'er  the  main, 
Taught  her  proud  barks  the  winding  way  to  shape, 
And  braved  the  stormy  Spirit  of  the  Cape ; 
Children  of  Brama !  then  was  Mercy  nigh 
To  wash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dye  ? 
Did  P_e£ce  descend,  to  triumph  and  to  save, 
When  freeborn  Britons  crossed  the  Indian  wave  ? 


52  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Ah,  no  !  —  to  more  than  Rome's  ambition  true. 
The  Nurse  of  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  you ! 
She  the  bold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began, 
And,  in  the  march  of  nations,  led  the  van ! 

Ricfc.  in  the  gems  of  India's  gaudy  zone, 

And  plunder  piled  from  kingdoms  not  their  own, 

Degenerate  trade !  thy  minions  could  despise 

The  heart-born  anguish  of  a  thousand  cries ; 

Could  lock,  with  impious  hands,  their  teeming  store, 

"While  famished  nations  died  along  the  shore : 

Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow-men,  and  bear; 

The  curse  of  kingdoms  peopled  with  despair ; 

Could  stamp  disgrace  on  man's  polluted  name, 

And  barter,  with  their  gold,  eternal  shame ! 

But  hark !  as  bowed  to  earth  the  Bramin  kneels, 
From  heavenly  climes  propitious  thunder  peals ! 
Of  India's  fate  her  guardian  spirits  tell, 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell, 
And  solemn  sounds  that  awe  the  listening  mind, 
Roll  on  the  azure  paths  of  every  wind. 

"  Foes  of  mankind !  (her  guardian  spirits  say,) 

Revolving  ages  bring  the  bitter  day, 

"When  heaven's  unerring  arm  shall  fall  on  you, 

And  blood  for  blood  these  Indian  plains  bedew; 

Nine  tunes  have  Brama's  wheels  of  lightning  hurled 

His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world ; 

Nine  times  hath  Guilt,  through  all  his  giant  frame, 

Convulsive  trembled,  as  the  Mighty  came ; 

Nine  times  hath  suffering  Mercy  spared  in  vain  — 

But  Heaven  shall  burst  her  starry  gates  again  ! 

He  comes  !  dread  Brama  shakes  the  sunless  sky 

"With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on  high, 

Heaven's  fiery  horse,  beneath  his  warrior  form, 

Paws  the  light  clouds,  and  gallops  on  the  storm ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  53 

Wide  waves  his  flickering  sword ;  his  bright  arms  glow 
Like  summer  suns,  and  light  the  world  below ! 
Earth,  and  her  trembling  isles  in  Ocean's  bed, 
Are  shook ;  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread ! 

"  To  pour  redress  on  India's  injured  realm, 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  whelm ; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plundered  shore 
With  arts  and  arms  that  triumphed  once. before, 
The  tenth  Avatar  comes !  at  Heaven's  command 
Shall  Seriswattee  wave  her  hallowed  wand ! 
And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  sublime, 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime !  — 
Come,  Heavenly  Powers  !  primeval  peace  restore  ! 
Love  !  —  Mercy  —  Wisdom  !  —  rule  for  evermore  !  " 


1MB 

PLEASURES     OF    HOPE 

PAHT     II. 


THE   PLEASURES    OF    HOPE 


PART     II. 


IN  joyous  youth,  what  soul  hath  never  known 
Thought,  feeling,  taste,  hannoneous  to  its  own  ? 
Who  hath  not  paused  while  Beauty's  pensive  eye 
Asked  from  his  heart  the  homage  of  a  sigh? 
"Who  hath  not  owned,  with  rapture-smitten  frame, 
The  power  of  grace,  the  magic  of  a  name  ?  ^- 

There  be,  perhaps,  who  barren  hearts  avow, 
Cold  as  the  rocks  on  Torneo's  hoary  brow ; 
There  be,  who.se  loveless  wisdom  never  failed, 
In  self-adoring  pride  securely  mailed  :  — 
But,  triumph  not,  ye  peace-enamored  few  ! 
Fire,  Nature,  Genius,  never  dwelt  with  you ! 
For  you  no  fancy  consecrates  the  scene 
Where  rapture  uttered  vows,  and  wept  between; 
'Tis  yours,  unmoved,  to  sever  and  to  meet ; 
No  pledge  is  sacred,  and  no  home  is  sweet ! 

Who  that  would  ask  a  heart  to  dulness  wed, 
The  waveless  calm,  the  slumber  of  the  dead? 
No ;   the  wild  bliss  of  Nature  needs  alloy, 
And  fear  and  sorrow  fan  the  fire  of  joy ! 
And  say,  without  our  hopes,  without  our  fears, 
^Without  the  home  that  plighted  love  endears, 


58  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

.Without  the  smile  from  partial  beauty  won, 

-  Oh  !   what  were  man  ?  —  a  world  without  a  sun. 

Till  Hymen  brought  his  love-delighted  hour, 

There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bower  I 

In  vain  the  viewless  seraph  lingering  there, 

At  starry  midnight  charmed  the  silent  air; 

In  vain  the  wild-bird  carolled  on  the  steep, 

To  hail  the  sun,  slow  wheeling  from  the  deep ; 

In  vain,  to  soothe  the  solitary  shade, 

Ae'rial  notes  in  mingling  measure  played ; 

The  summer  wind  that  shook  the  spangled  tree, 

The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  bee ;  — 

Still  slowly  passed  the  melancholy  day, 

And  still  the  stranger  wist  not  where  to  stray. 

The  world  was  sad  !  —  the  garden  was  a  wild ! 

And  man,  the  hermit,  sighed  —  till  woman  smiled  1 

True,  the  sad  power  to  generous  hearts  may  bring 

Delirious  anguish  on  his  fiery  wing ; 

Barred  from  delight  by  Fate's  untimely  hand, 

By  wealthless  lot,  or  pitiless  command ; 

Or  doomed  to  gaze  on  beauties  that  adorn 

The  smile  of  triumph  or  the  frown  of  scorn; 

While  Memory  watches  o'er  the  sad  review 

Of  joys  that  faded  like  the  morning  dew ; 

Peace  may  depart  —  and  life  and  nature  seem 

A  barren  path,  a  wildness,  and  a  dream  ! 

But  can  the  noble  mind  forever  brood, 

The  willing  victim  of  a  weary  mood, 

On  heartless  cares  that  squander  life  away, 

And  cloud  young  Genius  brightening  into  day  r  — 

Shame  to  the  coward  thought  that  e'er  betrayed 

The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  !  — 

If  HOPE'S  creative  spirit  can  not  raise 

One  trophy  sacred  to  thy  future  days, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  59 

Scorn  the  dull  crowd  that  haunt  the  gloomy  shrine, 

Of  hopeless  love  to  murmur  and  repine ! 

But,  should  a  sigh  of  milder  mood  express 

Thy  heart-warm  wishes,  true  to  happiness, 

Should  Heaven's  fair  harbinger  delight  to  pour 

Her  blissful  visions  on  thy  pensive  hour, 

No  tear  to  blot  thy  memory's  pictured  page, 

No  fears  but  such  as  fancy  can  assuage  ; 

Though  thy  wild  heart  some  hapless  hour  may  miss 

The  peaceful  tenor  of  unvaried  bliss, 

(For  love  pursues  an  ever-devious  race, 

True  to  the  winding  lineaments  of  grace ;  ) 

Yet  still  may  HOPE  her  talisman  employ 

To  snatch  from  Heaven  anticipated  joy, 

And  all  her  kindred  energies  impart 

That  burn  the  brightest  in  the  purest  heart. 


"When  first  the  Khodian's  mimic  art  arrayed 

The  queen  of  Beauty  in  her  Cyprian  shade, 

The  happy  master  mingled  on  his  piece 

Each  look  that  charmed  him  in  the  fair  of  Greece. 

To  faultless  Nature  true,  he  stole  a  grace 

From  every  finer  form  and  sweeter  face ; 

And  as  he  sojourned  on  the  JEgean  isles, 

Wooed  all  their  love,  and  treasured  all  their  smiles ; 

Then  glowed  the  tints,  pure,  precious,  and  refined, 

And  mortal  charms  seemed  heavenly  when  combined ! 

Love  on  the  picture  smiled  !     Expression  poured 

Her  mingling  spirit  there  —  and  Greece  adored  ! 

So  thy  fair  hand,  enamored  Fancy  !    gleans 
The  treasured  pictures  of  a  thousand  scenes ; 
Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover's  thought 
Some  cottage-home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where  love  and  lore  may  claim  alternate  hours, 
With  Peace  embosomed  in  Idalian  bowers  ! 


60  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Remote  from  busy  Life's  bewildered  way, 
O'er  all  his  heart  shall  Taste  and  Beauty  sway ! 
Free  on  the  sunny  slope  or  winding  shore, 
With  hermit  steps  to  wander  and  adore ! 
There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  morn  appears, 
Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears, 
To  watch  the  brightening  roses  of  the  sky, 
And  muse  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye !  — 
•And  when  the  sun's  last  splendor  lights  the  deep, 
The  woods  and  waves,  and  murmuring  winds  asleep, 
When  fairy  harps  the  Hesperian  planet  hail, 
And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale, 
His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 
Their  shadowy  grandeur  o'er  the  narrow  dell, 
Where  mouldering  piles  and  forests  intervene, 
Mingling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green ; 
No  circling  hills  his  ravished  eye  to  bound, 
Heaven,  Earth,  and  Ocean,  blazing  all  around. 

The  moon  is  up  —  the  watch-tower  dimly  burns  — 

And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns; 

But  pauses  oft,  as  winding  rocks  convey 

The  still  sweet  fall  of  music  far  away ; 

And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile 

To  watch  the  dying  notes  !  — and  start,  and  smile ! 

Let  winter  come  !   let  p  ;>lar  spirits  sweep 

The  darkening  world,  and  tempest-troubled  deep  ! 

Though  boundless  snows  the  withered  heath  deform, 

And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the  storm, 

Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay, 

With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day ! 

And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o'er, 

The  ice-chained  waters  slumbering  on  the  shore, 

How  bright  the  fagots  in  his  little  hall 

Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured  wall  I 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  61 

How  blest  he  names,  in  Love's  familiar  tone, 
The  kind,  fair  friend,  by  nature  marked  his  own ; 
And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind, 
Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 
Since  when  her  empire  o'er  his  heart  began ! 
Since  first  he  called  her  his  before  the  holy  man! 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 

And  light  the  wintry  paradise  of  home; 

And  let  the  half-uncurtained  window  hail 

Some  way-worn  man  benighted  in  the  vale ! 

Now,  while  the  moaning  night- wind  rages  high, 

As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky, 

While  fiery  hosts  in  Heaven's  wide  circle  play, 

And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  milky- way, 

Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower, 

Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hour  — 

With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit  beguile, 

A  generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a  smile  — 

Thy  woes,  Arion !    and  thy  simple  tale, 

O'er  all  the  heart  shall  triumph  and  prevail ! 

Charmed  as  they  read  the  verse  too  sadly  true, 

How  gallant  Albert,  and  his  weary  crew, 

Heaved  all  their  guns,  their  foundering  bark  to  save, 

And  toiled — and  shrieked  —  and  perished  on  the  wave! 

Yes,  at  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep; 
There  on  his  funeral  waters,  dark  and  wild, 
The  dying  father  blessed  his  darling  child ! 
Oh !   Mercy,  shield  her  innocence,  he  cried, 
Spent  on  the  prayer  his  bursting  heart,  and  died ! 

Or  they  will  learn  how  generous  worth  sublimes 
The  robber  Moor,  and  pleads  for  all  his  crimes ! 
How  poor  Amelia  kissed,  with  many  a  tear,     • 
His  hand,  blood-stained,  but  ever,  ever  dear ! 


62  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS 

Hung  on  the  tortured  bosom  of  her  lord, 
And  wept  and  prayed  perdition  from  his  sword  I 
Nor  sought  in  vain  !    at  that  heart-piercing  cry 
The  strings  of  Nature  cracked  with  agony ! 
He,  with  delirious  laugh,  the  dagger  hurled, 
And  burst  the  ties  that  bound  him  to  the  world ! 

Turn  from  his  dying  words,  that  smite  with  steel 

The  shuddering  thoughts,  or  wind  them  on  the  wheel - 

Turn  to  the  gentler  melodies  that  suit 

Thalia's  harp,  or  Pan's  Arcadian  lute ; 

Or,  down  the  stream  of  Truth's  historic  page, 

From  clime  to  clime  descend,  from  age  to  age  ! 

Yet  there,  perhaps,  may  darker  scenes  obtrude 
Than  Fancy  fashions  in  her  wildest  mood ; 
There  shall  he  pause  with  horrent  brow,  to  rate 
What  millions  died  —  that  Caesar  might  be  great ! 
Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thousands  bore, 
Marched  by  their  Charles  to  Dnieper's  swampy  shore  ! 
Faint  in  his  wounds  and  shivering  in  the  blast, 
The  Swedish  soldier  sunk  —  and  groaned  his  last ! 
File  after  file  the  stormy  showers  benumb, 
Freeze  every  standard- sheet,  and  hush  the  drum ! 
Horseman  and  horse  confessed  the  bitter  pang, 
And  arms  and  warriors  fell  with  hollow  clang ! 
Yet,  ere  he  sunk  in  Nature's  last  repose, 
Ere  life's  wann  torrent  to  the  fountain  froze, 
The  dying  man  to  Sweden  turned  his  eye, 
Thought  of  his  home,  and  closed  it  with  a  sigh  ! 
Imperial  Pride  looked  sullen  on  his  plight, 
And  Charles  beheld  —  nor  shuddered  at  the  sight  1 

Above,  below,  in  Ocean,  Earth,  and  Sky, 

Thy  fairy  worlds,  Imagination,  lie, 
.  And  HO^E  attends,  companion  of  the  way, 
v  Thy  dream  by  night,  thy  visions  of  the  day ! 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  63 

In  yonder  pensile  orb,  and  every  sphere 

That  gems  the  starry  girdle  of  the  year; 

In  those  unmeasured  words,  she  bids  thee  tell, 

Pure  from  their  God,  created  millions  dwell, 

"Whose  names  and  natures,  unrevealed  below, 

"VVe  yet  shall  learn,  and  wonder  as  we  know ; 

For,  as  lona's  saint,  a  giant  form, 

Throned  on  her  towers,  conversing  with  the  storm* 

(When  o'er  each  Runic  alter,  weed-entwined, 

The  vesper  clock  tolls  mournful  to  the  wind,) 

Counts  every  wave-worn  isle,  and  mountain  hoar, 

From  Kilda  to  the  green  lerne's  shore; 

So,  when  thy  pure  and  renovated  mind 

This  perishable  dust  hath  left  behijj^, 

Thy  seraph  eye  shall  count  the  starry  train, 

Like  distant  isles  embosomed  in  the  main; 

Rapt  to  the  shrine  where  motion  first  began, 

And  light  and  life  in  mingling  torrent  ran ; 

From  whence  each  bright  rotundity  was  hurled, 

The  throne  of  God,— the  centre  of  the  world! 

Oh !   vainly  wise,  the  moral  Muse  hath  sung 
That  suasive  HOPE  hath  but  a  Syren  tongue ! 
True ;   she  may  sport  with  life's  untutored  day, 
Nor  heed  the  solace  of  its  last  decay, 
The  guileless  heart  her  happy  mansion  spurn, 
And  part,  like  Ajut  —  never  to  return  ! 

But,  yet,  methinks,  when  Wisdom  shall  assuage 

The  grief  and  passions  of  our  greener  age, 

Though  dull  the  close  of  life,  and  far  away 

Each  flower  that  hailed  the  dawning  of  the  day: 

Yet  o'er  her  lovely  hopes,  that  once  were  dear, 

The  time-taught  spirit,  pensive,  not  severe, 

With  milder  griefs  her  aged  eye  shall  fill, 

And  weep  their  falsehood,  though  she  loves  them  still ! 


64  CAMPBELL'S 


Thus,  -with  forgiving  tears,  and  reconciled, 
The  king  of  Judah  mourned  his  rebel  child  ! 
Musing  on  days,  when  yet  the  guiltless  boy 
Smiled  on  his  sire,  and  filled  his  heart  with  joy  ! 
My  Absalom  !    the  voice  of  Nature  cried, 
Oh  !   that  for  thee  thy  father  could  have  died  ! 
For  bloody  was  the  deed,  and  rashly  done, 
That  slew  ray  Absalom  !  —  my  son  !  —  my  son  ! 

Unfading  HOPE  !   when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return  ! 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour  ! 
Oh  !   then,  thy  kingdom  comes  !    Immortal  Power  ! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye  ! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day  — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  phoenix  spirit  burns  within  ! 

Oh  !   deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  panting  spirit  sigh, 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die  ! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravelled  by  the  sun  ! 
Where  Time's  far  wandering  tide  has  never  run, 
From  your  unfathomed  shades,  and  viewless  spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears. 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and  loud, 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud  ! 
While  Nature  hears,  with  terror-mingled  trust, 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust  : 
And,  like  the  trembling  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  called  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss, 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss  ! 


CAMPBELLS     POEMS.  65 

Daughter  of  Faith,  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb; 
Melt,  and  dispel,  ye  spectre-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  o'er  the  parting  soul ! 
Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay, 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day ! 
The  strife  is  o'er  —  the  pangs  of  Nature  close, 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark!   as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  Heaven  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 
On  heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky, 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody; 
"Wild  as  that  hallowed  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale, 
When  Jordan  hushed  his  waves,  and  midnight  still 
Watched  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill ! 


Soul  of  the  just !   companion  of  the  dead  ! 
Where  is  thy  home,  and  whither  art  thou  fled? 
Back  to  its  heavenly  source  thy  being  goes, 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose ; 
Doomed  on  his  airy  path  awhile  to  burn, 
And  doomed,  like  thee,  to  travel,  and  return. — 
Hark !   from  the  world's  exploding  centre  driven, 
With  sounds  that  shook  the  firmament  of  Heaven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far, 
On  bickering  wheels,  and  adamantine  car; 
From  planet  whirled  to  planet  more  remote, 
He  visits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought ; 
But,  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is  run, 
Curbs  the  red  yoke,  and  mingles  with  the  sun ! 
So  hath  the  traveller  of  earth  unfurled 
Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world; 
And  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod, 
Sprung  to  her  source,  the  bosom  of  her  God ! 
G* 


66  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

Oh. !  lives  there,  Heaven !  beneath  thy  dread  expanse, 

One  hopeless,  dart  idolater  of  Chance 

Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefined, 

The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind ; 

Who,  mouldering  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust, 

In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust, 

Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss, 

And  call  this  barren  world  sufficient  bliss?  — 

There  live,  alas  !  of  heaven- directed  mien, 

Of  cultured  soul,  and  sapient  eye  serene, 

Who  hail  thee,  Man !  the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 

Spouse  of  the  worm,  and  brother  of  the  clay, 

Frail  as  the  leaf  in  Autumn's  yellow  bower, 

Dust  in  the  wind,  or  dew  upon  the  flower ; 

A  friendless  slave,  a  child  without  a  sire, 

Whose  mortal  life,  and  momentary  fire, 

Light  to  the  grave  his  chance-created  form, 

As  ocean- wrecks  illuminate  the  storm ; 

And,  when  the  gun's  tremendous  flash  is  o'er, 

To  night  and  silence  sink  for  evermore  !  — 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim, 

Lights  of  the  world,  and  demi-gods  of  Fame  ? 

Is  this  your  triumph  —  this  your  proud  applause, 

Children  of  Truth,  and  champions  of  her  cause  ? 

For  this  hath  Science  searched,  on  weary  wing, 

By  shore  and  sea  —  each  mute  and  living  thing ! 

Launched  with  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  steep, 

To  worlds  unknown  and  isles  beyond  the  deep  ? 

Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driven, 

And  wheeled  in  triumph  through  the  signs  of  Heaven, 

Oh !  star- eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wandered  there, 

To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  despair  ? 

Then  bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow  to  suit, 

Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death- distilling  fruit ! 

Ah  me !  the  laurelled  wreath  that  Murder  rears, 

Blood-nursed,  and  watered  by  the  widow's  tears, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  67 

Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so  dread, 
As  waves  the  night-shade  round  the  skeptic  head. 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain  ? 
I  smile  on  death,  if  Heaven-ward  HOPE  remain : 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's  strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life, 
If  Chance  awakened,  inexorable  power, 
This  frail  and  feverish  being  of  an  hour; 
Doomed  o'er  the  world's  precarious  scene  to  sweep, 
Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the  deep, 
To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting  smile, 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little  while ; 
Then  melt,  ye  elements,  that  formed  in  vaiai 
This  troubled  pulse,  and  visionary  brain  ! 
Fade,  ye  wild  flowers,  memorials  of  my  doom, 
And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to  the  tomb  ! 
Truth,  ever  lovely,  —  since  the  world  began, 
The  foe  of  tyrants,  and  the  friend  of  man,  — 
How  can  thy  words  from  balmy  slumber  start 
Reposing  Virtue,  pillowed  on  the  heart ! 
Yet,  if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thunder  rolled, 
And  that  were  true  which  Nature  never  told, 
Let  Wisdom  smile  not  on  her  conquered  field ; 
No  rapture  dawns,  no  treasure  is  revealed  ! 
Oh !  let  her  read,  nor  loudly,  nor  elate, 
The  doom  that  bars  us  from  a  better  fate ; 
But,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's  sin, 
Weep  to  record,  and  blush  to  give  it  in ! 

And  well  may  Doubt,  the  mother  of  Dismay, 

Pause  at  her  martyr's  tomb,  and  read  the  lay. 

Down  by  the  wilds  of  yon  deserted  vale, 

It  darkly  hints  a  melancholy  tale ! 

There,  as  the  homeless  madman  sits  alone, 

In  hollow  winds  he  hears  a  spirit  moan  ! 

And  there,  they  say,  a  wizard  ogie  crowds, 

When  the  Moon  lights  her  watch-tower  in  the  clouds. 


68  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Poor  lost  Alonzo  !  Fate's  neglected  child ! 

Mild  be  the  doom  of  Heaven  —  as  thou  wert  mild ! 

For  oh  !  thy  heart  in  holy  mould  was  cast, 

And  all  thy  deeds  were  blameless,  but  the  last. 

Poor  lost  Alonzo  !  still  I  seem  to  hear 

The  clod  that  struck  thy  hollow-sounding  bier  ! 

When  Friendship  paid,  in  speechless  sorrow  drowned, 

Thy  midnight  rites,  but  not  on  hallowed  ground ! 


Cease,  every  joy,  to  glimmer  on  my  mind, 
But  leave  —  oh  !  leave  the  light  of  HOPE  behind  ! 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been, 
Like  angel-visits,  few  and  far  between, 
—Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease, 
"And  charm  —  when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to  please  1 
Yes ;  let  each  rapture,  dear  to  Nature,  flee : 
Close  not  the  light  of  Fortune's  stormy  sea  — 
Mirth,  Music,  Friendship,  Love's  propitious  smile, 
Chase  every  care,  and  charm  a  little  while, 
Ecstatic  throbs  the  fluttering  heart  employ, 
And  all  her  strings  are  harmonized  to  joy !  — 
But  why  so  short  is  Love's  delighted  hour? 
Why  fades  the  dew  on  Beauty's  sweetest  flower  ? 
Why  can  no  hymned  charm  of  music  heal 
The  sleepless  woes  impassioned  spirits  feel? 
Can  Fancy's  fairy  hands  no  veil  create, 
To  hide  the  sad  realities  of  fate  ?  — 

No !  not  the  quaint  remark,  the  sapient  rule, 
Nor  all  the  pride"  of  Wisdom's  worldly  school, 
Have  power  to  soothe,  unaided  and  alone, 
The  heart  that  vibrates  to  a  feeling  tone ! 
When  stepdame  Nature  every  bliss  recalls, 
Fleet  as  the  metqpr  o'er  the  desert  falls ; 
When,  'reft  of  all,  yon  widowed  sire  appears 
A  lonely  hermit  in  the  vale  of  years ; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Say,  can  the  world  one  joyous  thought  bestow 
To  Friendship  weeping  at  the  couch  of  Wo  ? 
No !  but  a  brighter  soothes  the  last  adieu,  — 
Souls  of  impassioned  mould,  she  speaks  to  you ! 
Weep  not,  she  says,  at  Nature's  transient  pain, 
Congenial  spirits  part  to  meet  again ! 

What  plaintive  sobs  thy  filial  spirit  drew, 
What  sorrow  choked  thy  long  and  last  adieu ! 
Daughter  of  Conrad?  when  he  heard  his  knell, 
And  bade  his  country  and  his  child  farewell ! 
Doomed  the  long  isles  of  Sydney-cove  to  see, 
The  martyr  of  his  crimes,  but  true  to  thee? 
Thrice  the  sad  father  tore  thee  from  his  heart, 
And  thrice  returned,  to  bless  thee,  and  to  part; 
Thrice  from  his  trembling  lips  he  murmured  low 
The  plaint  that  owned  unutterable  wo ; 
Till  Faith,  prevailing  o'er  his  sullen  doom, 
As  bursts  the  morn  on  night's  unfathomed  gloom, 
Lured  his  dim  eye  to  deathless  hopes  sublime, 
Beyond  the  realms  of  Nature  and  of  Time ! 

"  And  weep  not  thus,"  he  cried,  "  young  Ellenore, 
My  bosom  bleeds,  but  soon  shall  bleed  no  more ! 
Short  shall  this  half-extinguished  spirit  burn, 
And  soon  these  limbs  to  kindred  dust  return ! 
But  not,  my  child,  with  life's  precarious  fire, 
The  immortal  ties  of  Nature  shall  expire ; 
These  shall  resist  the  triumph  of  decay, 
When  time  is  o'er,  and  worlds'  have  passed  away ! 
Cold  in  the  dust  this  perished  heart  may  lie, 
But  that  which  warmed  it  once  shall  never  die ! 
That  spark  unburied  in  its  mortal  frame, 
With  living  light,  eternal,  and  the  same, 
Shall  beam  on  Joy's  interminable  years, 
Unveiled  by  darkness  —  im assuaged  by  tears  ! 


70  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

"Yet,  on  the  barren  shore  and  stormy  deep, 
One  tedious  watch  is  Conrad  doomed  to  weep ; 
But  when  I  gain  the  home  without  a  friend, 
And  press  the  uneasy  couch  where  none  attend, 
This  last  embrace,  still  cherished  in  my  heart, 
Shall  calm  the  struggling  spirit  ere  it  part ! 
Thy  darling  form  shall  seem  to  hover  nigh, 
And  hush  the  groan  of    life's  last  agony 

"  Farewell !   when  strangers  lift  thy  father's  bier, 
And  place  my  nameless  stone  without  a  tear ; 
When  each  returning  pledge  hath  told  my  child 
That  Conrad's  tomb  is  on  the  desert  piled ; 
And  when  the  dream  of  troubled  Fancy  sees 
Its  lonely  rank  grass  waving  in  the  breeze; 
Who  then  will  soothe  thy  grief,  when  mine  is  o'er* 
Who  will  protect  thee,  helpless  Ellenore? 
Shall  secret  scenes  thy  filial  sorrows  hide, 
Scorned  by  the  world,  to  factious  guilt  allied? 
Ah  !   no ;   methinks  the  generous  and  the  good 
Will  woo  thee  from  the  shades  of  solitude  ! 
O'er  friendless  grief  compassion  shall  awake, 
And  smile  on  innocence,  for  Mercy's  sake  ! " 

\  Inspiring  thought  of  rapture  yet  to  be, 
The  tears  of  Love  were  hopeless,  but  for  thee ! 
If  in  that  frame  no  deathless  spirit  dwell, 
If  that  faint  murmur  be  the  last  farewell, 
If  Fate  unite  the  faithful  but  to  part, 
Why  is  their  memory  sacred  to  the  heart  ? 
Why  does  the  brother  of  my  childhood  seem 
Restored  awhile  in  every  pleasing  dream? 
Why  do  I  joy  the  lonely  spot  to  view, 
By  artless  friendship  blessed  when  life  was  new? 

\Eternal  HOPE  !    when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Pealed  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  Time, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Thy  joyous  youth  began  —  but  not  to  fade.  — 
When  all  the  sister  planets  have  decayed; 
When  wrapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  below; 
Thou,  undismayed,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile. 


ANALYSIS  —  PART  fl. 


APOSTROPHE  to  the  power  of  Love — its  intimate  connection  with 
generous  and  social  Sensibility  —  allusion  to  that  beautiful  passage  in 
the  beginning  of  the  Book  of  Genesis,  which  represents  the  happiness 
of  Paradise  itself  incomplete,  till  Love  was  superadded  to  its  other 
blessings  —  the  dreams  of  future  felicity  which  a  lively  imagination  is 
apt  to  cherish,  when  Hope  is  animated  by  refined  attachment  —  this  dis 
position  to  combine,  in  one  imaginary  scene  of  residence,  all  that  is 
pleasing  in  our  estimate  of  happiness,  compared  to  the  skill  of  the  great 
artist  who  personified  perfect  beauty,  in  the  picture  of  Venus,  by  an 
assemblage  of  the  most  beautiful  features  he  could  find  —  a  summer  and 
winter  evening  described,  as  they  may  be  supposed  to  arise  in  the  mind 
of  one  who  wishes,  with  enthusiasm,  for  the  union  of  friendship  and 
retirement. 

Hope  and  Imagination  inseparable  agents  —  even  in  those  contempla 
tive  moments  when  our  imagination  wanders  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
this  world,  our  minds  are  not  unattended  with  an  impression  that  we 
shall  some  day  have  a  wider  and  more  distinct  prospect  of  the  universe, 
instead  of  the  partial  glimpse  we  now  enjoy. 

The  last  and  most  sublime  influence  of  Hope  is  the  concluding  topic 
of  the  poem  —  the  predominance  of  a  belief  in  a  future  state  over  the 
terrors  attendant  on  dissolution  —  the  baneful  influence  of  that  skeptical 
philosophy  which  bars  us  from  such  comforts  —  allusion  to  the  fate  of  a 
suicide  —  episode  of  Conrad  and  Ellenore  —  conclusion. 


GERTRUDE    OF    WYOMING 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


MOST  of  the  popular  histories  of  England,  as  well  as  of  the  American 
war,  give  an  authentic  account  of  the  desolation  of  Wyoming,  in  Penn 
sylvania,  which  took  place  in  1778,  by  an  incursion  of  the  Indians.  The 
scenery  and  incidents  of  the  following  Poem  are  connected  with  that 
event.  The  testimonies  of  historians  and  travellers  concur  in  describing 
the  infant  colony  as  one  of  the  happiest  spots  of  human  existence,  for 
the  hospitable  and  innocent  manners  of  the  inhabitants,  the  beauty  of 
the  country,  and  the  luxuriant  fertility  of  the  soil  and  climate.  In  an 
evil  hour,  the  junction  of  European  with  Indian  arms  converted  this 
terrestrial  paradise  into  a  frightful  waste.  Ms.  ISAAC  WELD  informs 
us,  that  the  ruins  of  many  of  the  vfJages,  perforated  with  balls,  and 
bearing  marks  of  conflagration,  were  still  preserved  by  the  recent  inhab 
itants,  when  he  travelled  through  America  in  1786 


GERTRUDE    OF   WYOMING 


PART     I. 


ON  Susquehanna's  side,  fair  Wyoming ! 

Although  the  wild-flower  on  thy  ruined  wall, 

And  roofless  homes,  a  sad  remembrance  bring 

Of  what  thy  gentle  people  did  befall ; 

Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all 

That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  morn  restore. 

Sweet  land !   may  I  thy  lost  delights  recall, 

And  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 

"Whose  beauty  was  the  love  of  Pennsylvania's  shore ! 


ii. 


Delightful  Wyoming  !   beneath  thy  skies, 
The  happy  shepherd  swains  had  nought  to  do 
But  feed  their  flocks  on  green  declivities, 
Or  skim  perchance  thy  lake  with  light  canoe, 
From  morn  tiH  evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew, 
With  timbrel,  when  beneath  the  forests  brown, 
Thy  lovely  maidens  would  the  dance  renew; 
And  aye  those  sunny  mountains  half-way  down 
Would  echo  flagelet  from  some  romantic  town. 


76  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 


Then,  where  of  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
His  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 
Disporting  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes  — 
A.nd  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut- grown  tree : 
And  every  sound  of  life  was  full  of  glee, 
From  merry  mock-bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men; 
While  hearkening,  fearing  nought  their  revelry, 
The  wild  deer  arched  his  neck  from  glades,  and  then, 
Unhunted,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

IV. 

And  scarce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 
Heard,  but  in  transatlantic  story  rung, 
For  here  the  exile  met  from  every  clime, 
And  spoke  in  friendship  every  distant  tongue; 
Men  from  the  blood  of  warring  Europe  sprung 
Were  but  divided  by  the  running  brook; 
And  happy  where  no  Rhenish  trumpet  sung, 
On  plains  no  sieging  mine's  volcano  shook, 
The  blue-eyed  German  changed  his  sword  to  pruning* 
hook. 


Nor  far  some  Andalusian  saraband 

Would  sound  to  many  a  native  roundelay  — 

But  who  is  he  that  yet  a  dearer  land 

Remembers,  over  hills  and  far  away? 

Green  Albin  !  *  what  though  he  no  more  survey 

Thy  ships  at  anchor  on  the  quiet  shore, 

Thy  pellochsf  rolling  from  the  mountain  bay, 

Thy  lone  sepulchral  cairn  upon  the  moor, 

And  distant  isles  that  hear  the  loud  Corbrechtan  J  roar  I 


*  Scotland. 

t  The  Gaelic  appellation  for  the  porpoise. 

t  The  great  whirlpool  of  the  Western  Hebrides. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  77 


Alas  !   poor  Caledonia's  mountaineer, 

That  want's  stern  edict  e'er,  and  feudal  grief, 

Had  forced  him  from  a  home  he  loved  so  dear ! 

Yet  found  he  here  a  home,  and  glad  relief, 

And  plied  the  beverage  from  his  own  fair  sheaf, 

That  fired  his  Highland  blood  with  mickle  glee  : 

And  England  sent  her  men,  of  men  the  chief, 

Who  taught  those  sires  of  Empire  yet  to  be, 

To  plant  the  tree  of  life,  —  to  plant  fair  Freedom's  tree  ! 


Here  was  not  mingled  in  the  city's  pomp 
Of  life's  extremes  the  grandeur  and  the  gloom; 
Judgment  awoke  not  here  her  dismal  tromp, 
Nor  sealed  in  blood  a  fellow-creature's  doom, 
Nor  mourned  the  captive  in  a  living  tomb. 
One  venerable  man,  beloved  of  all, 
Sufficed,  where  innocence  was  yet  in  bloom, 
To  sway  the  strife,  that  seldom  might  befall ; 
And  Albert  was  their  judge  in  patriarchal  hall. 


How  reverend  was  the  look,  serenely  aged, 
He  bore,  this  gentle  Pennsylvanian  sire, 
Where  all  but  kindly  fervors  were  assuaged, 
Undimmed  by  weakness  shade,  or  turbid  ire ! 
And  though,  amidst  the  calm  of  thought  entire, 
Some  high  and  haughty  features  might  betray 
A  soul  impetuous  once,  'twas  earthly  fire 
That  fled  composure's  intellectual  ray, 
As  ./Etna's  fires  grow  dim  before  the  rising  day. 


I  boast  no  song  in  magic  wonders  rife, 

But  yet,  oh  Nature  !    is  there  naught  to  prize, 

7* 


78 


POEMS, 


Familiar  in  thy  bosom  scenes  of  life? 

And  dwells  in  daylight  truth's  salubrious  skies 

No  form  with  which  the  soul  may  sympathize?  — 

Young,  innocent,  on  whose  sweet  forehead  mild 

Die  parted  ringlet  shone  in  simplest  guise, 

An  inmate  in  the  home  of  Albert  smiled, 

Or  blest  his  noonday  walk  —  she  was  his  only  child. 


The  rose  of  England  bloomed  on  Gertrude's  cheek  — 
What  though  these  shades  had  seen  her  birth,  her  sire 
A  Briton's  independence  taught  to  seek 
Far  western  worlds ;   and  there  his  household  fire 
The  light  of  social  love  did  long  inspire, 
And  many  a  halcyon  day  he  lived  to  see 
Unbroken  but  by  one  misfortune  dire, 
When  fate  had  reft  his  mutual  heart  —  but  she 
Was   gone  —  and   Gertrude  climbed  a  widowed   father's 
knee. 

XI. 

A  loved  bequest,  —  and  I  may  half  impart  — 

To  them  that  feel  the  strong  paternal  tie, 

How  like  a  new  existence  to  his  heart 

That  living  flower  uprose  beneath  his  eye, 

Dear  as  she  was  from  cherub  infancy, 

From  hours  when  she  would  round  his  garden  play, 

To  time  when  as  the  ripening  years  went  by, 

Her  lovely  mind  could  culture  well  repay, 

And  more  engaging  grew,  from  pleasing  day  to  day. 


I  may  not  paint  those  thousand  infant  charms; 

(Unconscious  fascination,  undesigned  !) 

The  orison  repeated  in  his  arms, 

For  God  to  bless  her  sire  and  all  mankind; 

The  book,  the  bosom  on  his  knee  reclined, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  79 

Or  how  sweet  fairy-lore  he  heard  her  con, 
(The  playmate  ere  the  teacher  of  her  mind:) 
All  uncompanioned  else  her  heart  had  gone 
Till  now,  in  Gertrude's  eyes,   their  ninth   blue   summer 
shone. 

XIII. 

And  summer  was  the  tide,  and  sweet  the  hour, 

"When  sire  and  daughter  saw,  with  fleet  descent, 

An  Indian  from  his  bark  approach  their  bower, 

Of  buskined  limb,  and  swarthy  lineament ; 

The  red  wild  feathers  on  his  brow  were  blent, 

And  bracelets  bound  the  arm  that  helped  to  light 

A  boy,  who  seemed,  as  he  beside  liim  went, 

Of  Christian  vesture,  and  complexion  bright, 

Led  by  his  dusky  guide,  like  morning  brought  by  night. 


Yet  pensive  seemed  the  boy  for  one  so  young  — 

The  dimple  from  his  polished  cheek  had  fled ; 

When,  leaning  on  his  forest-bow  unstrung, 

The  Oneida  warrior  to  the  planter  said, 

And  laid  his  hand  upon  the  stripling's  head, 

"  Peace  be  to  thee  !   my  words  this  belt  approve ; 

The  paths  of  peace  my  steps  have  hither  led : 

This  little  nursling,  take  him  to  thy  love, 

And  shield  the  bird  unfledged,  since  gone  the  parent  dove. 


"  Christian !    I  am  the  foeman  of  thy  foe ; 
Our  wampum  league  thy  brethren  did  embrace: 
Upon  the  Michigan,  three  moons  ago, 
We  launched  our  pirogues  for  the  bison  chase, 
And  with  the  Hurons  planted  for  a  space, 
With  true  and  faithful  hands,  the  olive-stalk  ; 
But  snakes  are  in  the  bosoms  of  their  race, 
And  though  they  held  with  us  a  friendly  talk, 
The  hollow  peace  tree  fell  beneath  the  tomahawk  ! 


80  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

XVI. 

"  It  was  encamping  on  the  lake's  far  port, 

A  cry  of  Areouski*  broke  our  sleep, 

Where  stormed  an  ambushed  foe  thy  nation's  fort, 

And  rapid,  rapid  whoops  came  o'er  the  deep  ; 

But  long  thy  country's  war-sign  on  the  steep 

Appeared  through  ghastly  intervals  of  light, 

And  deathfully  their  thunders  seemed  to  sweep, 

Till  utter  darkness  swallowed  up  the  sight, 

As  if  a  shower  of  blood  had  quenched  the  fiery  fight ! 


XVII. 

"It  slept  —  it  rose  again  —  on  high  their  tower 

Sprung  upwards  like  a  torch  to  light  the  skies, 

Then  down  again  it  rained  an  ember  shower, 

And  louder  lamentations  heard  we  rise : 

As  when  the  evil  Manitou  that  dries 

The  Ohio  woods,  consumes  them  in  his  ire, 

In  vain  the  desolated  panther  flics, 

And  howls  amidst  his  wilderness  of  fire : 

Alas  !  too  late,  we  reached  and  smote  those  Hurons  dire  \ 


"But  as  the  fox  beneath  the  nobler  hound, 

So  died  their  warriors  by  our  battle-brand ; 

And  from  the  tree  we,  with  her  child,  unbound 

A  lonely  mother  of  the  Christian  land :  — 

Her  lord  —  the  captain  of  the  British  band 

Amidst  the  slaughter  of  his  soldiers  lay. 

Scarce  knew  the  widow  our  delivering  hand ; 

Upon  her  child  she  sobbed,  and  swooned  away, 

Or  shrieked  unto  the  God  to  whom  the  Cristians  pray. 

•  The  Indian  God  of  War. 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  81 

XIX. 

"Our  virgins  fed  her  with  their  kindly  bowls 

Of  fever  balm  and  sweet  sagamite : 

But  she  was  journeying  to  the  land  of  souls, 

And  lifted  up  her  dying  head  to  pray 

That  we  should  bid  an  ancient  friend  convey 

Her  orphan  to  his  home  of  England's  shore; 

And  take,  she  said,  this  token  far  away, 

To  one  that  will  remember  us  of  yore, 

When  he  beholds  the  ring  that  Waldegrave's  Julia  wore. 


xx. 


"And  I,  the  eagle  of  my  tribe,  have  rushed 

"With  this  lorn  dove."  —  A  sage's  self-command 

Had  quelled  the  tears  from  Albert's  heart  that  gushed ; 

But  yet  his  cheek  —  his  agitated  hand  — 

That  showered  upon  the  stranger  of  the  land 

No  common  boon,  in  grief  but  ill  beguiled 

A  soul  that  was  not  wont  to  be  unmanned; 

"And  stay,"  he  cried,  "dear  pilgrim  of  the  wild, 

Preserver  of  my  old,  my  boon  companion's  child !     - 


XXI. 


"  Child  of  a  race  whose  name  my  bosom  w  -rms, 

On  earth's  remotest  bounds  how  welcome  here ! 

Whose  mother  oft,  a  child,  has  filled  these  arms, 

Young  as  thyself,  and  innocently  dear, 

Whose  grandsire  was  my  early  life's  compeer. 

Ah,  happiest  home  of  England's  happy  clime  ! 

How  beautiful  even  now  thy  scenes  appear, 

As  in  the  noon  and  sunshine  of  my  prime ! 

How  gone  like  yesterday  these  thrice  ten  years  of  time ! 


82  CAMPBELL    3     POEMS. 

XXII. 

"  And  Julia !   when  thou  wert  like  Gertrude  now, 

Can  I  forget  thee,  favorite  child  of  yore  ? 

Or  thought  I,  in  thy  father's  house,  when  thou 

Wert  lightest  hearted  on  his  festive  floor, 

And  first  of  all  his  hospitable  door 

To  meet  and  kiss  me  at  my  journey's  end  r 

But  where  was  I  when  Waldegrave  was  no  more? 

And  thou  didst  pale  thy  gentle  hand  extend 

In  woes,  that  even  the  tribe  of  deserts  was  thy  friend ! ' 

XXIII. 

He  said  —  and  strained  unto  his  heart  the  boy;  — 
Far  differently,  the  mute  Oneida  took 
His  calumet  of  peace,  and  cup  of  joy ; 
As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look ; 
A  soul  that  pity  touched,  but  never  shook; 
Trained  from  his  tree-rocked  cradle  to  his  bier 
The  fierce  extreme  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive  —  fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear  — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods  —  a  man  without  a  tear. 


Yet  deem  not  goodness  on  the  savage  stock 
Of  Outalissi's  heart  disdained  to  grow; 
As  lives  the  oak  unwithered  on  the  rock 
By  storms  above,  and  barrenness  below ; 
He  scorned  his  own,  who  felt  another's  woe : 
And  ere  the  wolf-skin  on  his  back  he  filing, 
Or  laced  his  moccasins,  in  act  to  go, 
A  song  of  parting  to  the  boy  he  sung, 
Who  slept   on   Albert's   couch,    nor   heard   his  friendly 
tongue. 

XXV. 

"  Sleep,  wearied  one !    and  in  the  dreaming  land 
Shouldst  thou  to-morrow  with  thy  mother  meet, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  $ 

Oh !    tell  her  spirit,  that  the  white  man's  hand 

Hath  plucked  the  thorns  of  sorrow  from  thy  feet ; 

While  I  in  lonely  wilderness  shall  greet 

Thy  little  foot-prints  —  or  by  traces  know 

The  fountain,  where  at  noon  I  thought  it  sweet 

To  feed  thee  with  the  quarry  of  my  bow, 

And  poured  the  lotus-horn,  or  slew  the  mountain  roe. 


XXVI. 


Adieu !  sweet  scion  of  the  rising  sun  ! 
But  should  affliction's  storms  thy  blossom  mock, 
Then  come  again  —  my  own  adopted  one ! 
And  I  will  graft  thee  on  a  noble  stock; 
The  crocodile,  the  condor  of  the  rock, 
Shall  be  the  pastime  of  thy  sylvan  wars ; 
And  I  will  teach  thee,  in  the  battle's  shock, 
To  pay  -with  Huron  blood  thy  father's  scars, 
And  gratulate  his  soul  rejoicing  in  the  stars ! " 


So  finished  he  the  rhyme  (howe'er  uncouth) 
That  true  to  nature's  fervid  feelings  ran; 
(And  song  is  but  the  eloquence  of  truth :) 
Then  forth  uprose  that  lone  way-faring  man ; 
But  dauntless  he,  nor  chart,  nor  journey's  plan 
In  woods  required,  whose  trained  eye  was  keen, 
As  eagle  of  the  wilderness,  to  scan 
His  path  by  mountain,  swamp,  or  deep  ravine, 
Or  ken  far  friendly  huts  on  good  savannas  green. 


XXVIII. 


Old  Albert  saw  him  from  the  valley's  side  — 
His  pirogue  .launched  —  his  pilgrimage  begun  — 
Far,  like  the  red-bird's  wing  he  seemed  to  glide; 
Then  dived,  and  vanished  in  the  woodlands  dun- 


84  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Oft,  to  that  spot  by  tender  memory  won, 

Would  Albert  climb  the  promontory's  height, 

If  but  a  dim  sail  glimmered  in  the  sun ; 

But  never  more,  to  bless  his  longing  sight, 

Was  Outalissi  hailed,  with  bark  and  plumage  bright 


GERTRUDE    OF    WYOMING. 

PART     II. 


A  VALLEY  from  the  river  shore  withdrawn 

Was  Albert's  home,  two  quiet  woods  between, 

"Whose  lofty  verdure  overlooked  his  lawn ; 

And  waters  to  their  resting  place  serene 

Came  freshening,  and  reflecting  all  the  scene : 

(A  mirror  in  the  depth  of  flowery  shelves ;) 

So  sweet  a  spot  of  earth,  you  might  (I  ween) 

Have  guessed  some  congregation  of  the  elves, 

To  sport  by  summer  moons,  had  shaped  it  for  themselves 


n. 

Yet  wanted  not  the  eye  far  scope  to  muse, 
Nor  vistas  opened  by  the  wandering  stream ; 
Both  where  at  evening  Alleghany  views, 
Through  ridges  burning  in  her  western  beam, 
Lake  after  lake  interminably  gleam : 
And  past  those  settlers'  haunts  the  eye  might  roam 
Where  earth's  unliving  silence  all  would  seem ; 
Save  where  on  rocks  the  beaver  built  his  dome, 
Or  buffalo  remote  lowed  far  from  human  home. 
8 


86  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 


But  silent  not  that  adverse  eastern  path, 
Which  saw  Aurora's  hills  th'  horizon  crown ; 
There  was  the  river  heard,  in  bed  of  wrath, 
(A  precipice  of  foam  from  mountains  brown,) 
Like  tumults  heard  from  some  far  distant  town ; 
But  softening  in  approach  he  left  his  gloom, 
And  murmured  pleasantly,  and  laid  him  down 
To  kiss  those  easy  curving  banks  of  bloom, 
That  lent  the  windward  air  an  exquisite  perfume. 


It  seemed  as  if  those  scenes  sweet  influence  had 

On  Gertrude's  soul,  and  kindness  like  their  own 

Inspired  those  eyes  affectionate  and  glad, 

That  seemed  to  love  whate'er  they  looked  upon  ; 

Whether  with  Hebe's  mirth  her  features  shone, 

Or  if  a  shade  more  pleasing  them  o'ercast, 

(As  if  for  heavenly  musing  meant  alone ;) 

Yet  so  becomingly  th'  expression  past, 

That  each  succeeding  look  was  lovelier  than  the  last. 


Nor  guess  I,  was  that  Pennsylvanian  home, 

With  all  its  picturesque  and  balmy  grace, 

And  fields  that  were  a  luxury  to  roam, 

Lost  on  the  soul  that  looked  from  such  a  face  ! 

Enthusiast  of  the  woods  !    when  years  apace 

Had  bound  thy  lovely  waist  with  woman's  zone. 

The  sunrise  path,  at  morn,  I  see  thee  trace 

To  hills  with  high  magnolia  overgrown, 

And  joy  to  breathe  the  groves,  romantic  and  alone. 

VI. 

The  sunrise  drew  her  thoughts  to  Europe  forth, 
That  thus  apostrophized  its  viewless  scene  : 


CAMPBELLS     POEMS.  87 

"  Land  of  my  father's  love,  my  mother's  birth  ! 

The  home  of  kindred  I  have  never  seen  ! 

We  know  not  other  —  oceans  are  between  : 

Yet  say,  far  friendly  hearts  !   from  whence  we  came, 

Of  us  does  oft  remembrance  intervene  ? 

My  mother  sure  —  my  sire  a  thought  may  claim ;  — 

But  Gertrude  is  to  you  an  unregarded  name. 


"  And  yet,  loved  England !   when  thy  name  I  trace 

In  many  a  pilgrim's  tale  and  poet's  song, 

How  can  I  choose  but  wish  for  one  embrace 

Of  them,  the  dear  unknown,  to  whom  belong 

My  mother's  looks,  —  perhaps  her  likeness  strong  ? 

Oh,  parent !   with  what  reverential  awe, 

From  features  of  thine  own  related  throng, 

An  unage  of  thy  face  my  soul  could  draw ! 

And  see  thee  once  again  whom  I  too  shortly  saw ! " 


Yet  deem  not  Gertrude  sighed  for  foreign  joy ; 
To  soothe  a  father's  couch  her  only  care, 
And  keep  his  reverend  head  from  all  annoy : 
For  this,  methinks,  her  homeward  steps  repair, 
Soon  as  the  morning  wreath  had  bound  her  hair; 
While  yet  the  wild  deer  trod  in  spangling  dew, 
While  boatman  carolled  to  the  fresh-blown  air, 
And  woods  a  horizontal  shadow  threw, 
And  early  fox  appeared  in  momentary  view. 


Apart  there  was  a  deep  untrodden  grot, 

Where  oft  the  reading  hours  sweet  Gertrude  wore ; 

Tradition  had  not  named  its  lonely  spot ; 

But  here,  methinks,  might  India's  sons  explore 

Their  fathers'  dust,  or  lift,  perchance  of  yore, 


88  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

Their  voice  to  the  Great  Spirit :  —  rocks  sublime 

To  human  art  a  sportive  semblance  bore, 

And  yellow  lichens  colored  all  the  clime, 

Like  moonlight  battlements,  and  tow'rs  decayed  by  time. 


But  high  in  amphitheatre  above, 
Gay-tinted  woods  their  massy  foliage  threw : 
Breathed  but  an  air  of  heaven,  and  all  the  grove 
As  if  instinct  with  living  spirit  grew, 
Rolling  its  verdant  gulfs  of  every  hue ; 
And  now  suspended  was  the  pleasing  din, 
Now  from  a  murmur  faint  it  swelled  anew, 
Like  the  first  note  of  organ  heard  within 
Cathedral  aisles,  —  ere  yet  its  symphony  begin. 


It  was  in  this  lone  valley  she  would  charm 
The  lingering  noon,  where  flowers  a  couch  had  strewn; 
Her  cheek  reclining,  and  her  snowy  arm 
On  hillock  by  the  pine-tree  half  o'ergrown : 
And  aye  that  volume  on  her  lap  is  thrown, 
Which  every  heart  of  human  mould  endears ; 
With  Shakspeare's  self  she  speaks  and  smiles  alone, 
And  no  intruding  visitation  fears, 

To  shame  the   unconscious   laugh,  or  stop  her  sweetest 
tears. 

XII. 

And  nought  within  the  grove  was  heard  or  seen 

But  stock-doves  plaining  through  its  gloom  profound, 

Or  winglet  of  the  fairy  humming-bird, 

Like  atoms  of  the  rainbow  fluttering  round ; 

When  lo  !   there  entered  to  its  inmost  ground 

A  youth,  the  stranger  of  a  distant  land; 

He  was,  to  weet,  for  eastern  mountains  bound ; 


CAMPBELL    S     POEMS. 


But  late  th'  equator  suns  his  cheek  had  tanned, 
And  California's  gales  his  roving  bosom  fanned. 


A  steed,  whose  rein  hung  loosely  o'er  his  arm, 
He  led  dismounted ;    ere  his  leisure  pace, 
Amid  the  brown  leaves,  could  her  ear  alarm, 
Close  he  had  come,  and  worshipped  for  a  space 
Those  downcast  features  :  —  she  her  lovely  face 
Uplift  on  one,  whose  lineaments  and  frame 
Wore  youth  and  manhood's  intermingled  grace  : 
Iberian  seemed  his  boot  —  his  robe  the  same, 
And  well  the  Spanish  r>lume  his  lofty  looks  became. 

xrv. 

For  Albert's  home  he  sought  —  her  finger  fair 

Has  pointed  where  the  father's  mansion  stood. 

Heturning  from  the  copse  he  soon  was  there ; 

And  soon  has  Gertrude  hied  from  dark-green  wood ; 

Nor  joyless,  by  the  converse,  understood 

Between  the  man  of  age  and  pilgrim  young, 

That  gay  congeniality  of  mood, 

And  early  liking  from  acquaintance  sprung  ; 

Full  fluently  conversed  their 'guest  in  England's  tongue. 


And  well  could  he  his  pilgrimage  of  taste 
Unfold,  —  and  much  they  loved  his  fervid  strain, 
While  he  each  fair  variety  retraced 
Of  climes,  and  manners,  o'er  the  eastern  main. 
Now  happy  Switzer's  hills,  —  romantic  Spain,  - 
Gay  lilied  fields  of  France,  —  or,  more  refined, 
The  soft  Ausonia's  monumental  reign  ; 
Nor  less  each  rural  image  he  designed 
Than  all  the  city's  pomp  and  home  of  human  kind. 
8* 


90  CAMPBELLS     POEMS. 


Anon  some  wilder  portraiture  he  draws ; 

Of  Nature's  savage  glories  he  would  speak,  — 

The  loneliness  of  earth  that  overawes,  — 

Where,  resting  by  some  tomb  of  old  Cacique, 

The  lama-driver  on  Peruvia's  peak, 

Nor  living  voice  nor  motion  marks  around; 

But  storks  that  to  the  boundless  forest  shriek, 

Or  wild-cane  arch  high  flung  o'er  gulf  profound, 

That  fluctuates  when  the  storms  of  El  Dorado  sound. 


Pleased  with  his  guest,  the  good  man  still  would  ply 

Each  earnest  question,  and  his  converse  court ; 

But  Gertrude,  as  she  eyed  him,  knew  not  why 

A  strange  and  troubling  wonder  stopped  her  short. 

"  In  England  thou  hast  been,  —  and,  by  report, 

An  orphan's  name  (quoth  Albert)  may'st  have  known. 

Sad  tale  !  —  when  latest  fell  our  frontier  fort,  — 

One  innocent  —  one  soldier's  child  —  alone 

Was  spared,  and   brought  to  me,  who  loved  him  as  my 


"Young  Henry  Waldegrave !   three  delightful  years 

These  very  walls  his  infant  sports  did  see, 

But  most  I  loved  him  when  his  parting  tears 

Alternately  bedewed  my  child  and  me : 

His  sorest  parting,  Gertrude,  was  from  thee ; 

Nor  half  its  grief  his  little  heart  could  hold ; 

By  kindred  he  was  sent  for  o'er  the  sea, 

They  tore  him  from  us  when  but  twelve  years  old, 

And  scarcely  for  his  loss  have  I  been  yet  consoled !  " 


His  face  the  wanderer  hid  —  but  could  not  hide 
A  tear,  a  smile,  upon  his  cheek  that  dwell ; 


91 

And  "Speak!    mysterious  stranger!"  Gertrude  cried; 

"It  is  !  —  it  is  !  —  I  knew  —  I  knew  him  well ! 

'Tis  Waldegrave's  self,  of  Waldegrave  come  to  tell !  " 

A  burst  of  joy  the  father's  lips  declare ; 

But  Gertrude  speechless  on  his  bosom  fell ; 

At  once  his  open  arms  embraced  the  pair, 

Was  never  group  more  blest  in  this  wide  world  of  care. 


"And  will  ye  pardon,  then,"  replied  the  youth, 

"Your  Waldegrave's  feigned  name,  and  false  attire? 

I  durst  not  in  the  neighborhood,  in  truth, 

The  very  fortunes  of  your  house  inquire ; 

Lest  one  that  knew  me  might  some  tidings  dire 

Impart,  and  I  my  weakness  all  betray; 

For,  had  I  lost  my  Gertrude  and  my  sire, 

I  meant  but  o'er  your  tombs  to  weep  a  day, 

Unknown  I  meant  to  weep,  unknown  to  pass  a^ay. 


"  But  here  ye  live,  ye  bloom,  —  in  each  dear  face, 

The  changing  hand  of  time  I  may  not  blame ; 

For  there,  it  hath  but  shed  more  reverend  grace, 

And  here,  of  beauty  perfected  the  frame, 

And  well  I  know  your  hearts  are  still  the  same  — 

They  could  not  change  —  ye  look  the  very  way, 

As  when  an  orphan  first  to  you  I  came. 

And  have  ye  heard  of  my  poor  guide,  I  pray  ? 

Nay,  wherefore  weep  ye,  friends,  on  such  a  joyous  day  ? ' 


"  And  art  thou  here  ?   or  is  it  but  a  dream  ? 
And  wilt  thou,  Waldegrave,  wilt  thou  leave  us  more  ? ' 
"  No,  never !   thou  that  yet  dost  lovelier  seem 
Than  aught  on  earth  —  than  ev'n  thyself  of  yore  — 


92 


I  will  not  part  thee  from  thy  father's  shore; 
But  we  shall  cherish  him  with  mutual  arms, 
And  hand  in  hand  again  the  path  explore 
"Which  every  ray  of  young  remembrance  warms, 
While   thou  shalt  be  my  own,  with  all  thy  truth  and 
charms?" 

xxm. 

At  morn,  as  if  beneath  a  galaxy 

Of  over-arching  groves  in  blossoms  white, 

Where  all  was  odorous  scent  and  harmony, 

And  gladness  to  the  heart,  nerve,  ear,  and  sight : 

There,  if,  oh,  gentle  Love !   I  read  aright 

The  utterance  that  sealed  thy  sacred  bond, 

'Twas  listening  to  these  accents  of  delight. 

She  hid  upon  his  breast  those  eyes,  beyond 

Expression's  power  to  paint,  all  languishingly  fond  — 


"  Flower  of  my  life,  so  lovely,  and  so  lone ! 
Whom  I  would  rather  in  this  desert  meet, 
Scorning,  and  scorned  by  fortune's  power,  than  own 
Her  —  pomp  and  splendors  lavished  at  my  feet ! 
Turn  not  from  me  thy  breath,  more  exquisite 
Than  odors  cast  on  heaven's  own  shrine — to  please  - 
Give  me  thy  love,  than  luxury  more  sweet, 
And  more  than  all  the  wealth  that  loads  the  breeze, 
When  Coromandel's  ships  return  from  Indian 


XXV. 

Then  would  that  home  admit  them  —  happier  far 
Than  grandeur's  most  magnificent  saloon, 
While,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star 
Flushed  in  the  darkening  firmament  of  June ; 
And  silence  brought  the  soul-felt  hour,  full  soon, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  93 

Ineffable,  which  I  may  not  portray ; 

For  never  did  the  hymenean  moon 

A  paradise  of  hearts  more  sacred  sway, 

In  aU  that  slept  beneath  her  soft  voluptuous  ray. 


GERTRUDE    OF    WYOMING. 


PART     III. 


O  LOVE  !  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 

Where  transport  and  security  entwine, 

Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss, 

And  here  thou  art  a  god  indeed  divine. 

Here  shall  no  forms  abridge,  no  hours  confine, 

The  views,  the  walks,  that  boundless  joy  inspire ! 

Roll  on,  ye  days  of  raptured  influence,  shine ! 

Nor,  bund  with  ecstacy's  celestial  fire, 

Shall  love  behold  the  spark  of  earth-born  time  expire. 


H. 


Three  little  moons,  how  short !  admidst  the  grove 

And  pastoral  savannas  they  consume  ! 

"While  she,  beside  her  buskined  youth  to  rove, 

Delights,  in  fancifully  wild  costume, 

Her  lovely  brow  to  shade  with  Indian  plume ; 

And  forth  in  hunter-seeming  vest  they  fare; 

But  not  to  chase  the  deer  in  forest  gloom, 

"Tis  but  the  breath  of  heaven  —  the  blessed  air  — 

And  interchange  of  hearts  unknown,  unseen  to  share. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  95 


What  though  the  sportive  dog  oft  round  them  note, 
Or  fawn,  or  wild  bird  bursting  on  the  wing ; 
Yet  who,  in  love's  own  presence,  would  devote 
To  death  those  gentle  throats  that  wake  the  spring, 
Or  writhing  from  the  brook  its  victim  bring  ? 
No  !  —  nor  let  fear  one  little  warbler  revise ; 
But,  fed  by  Gertrude.'s  hand,  still  let  them  sing, 
Acquaintance  of  her  path,  amidst  the  boughs, 
That  shade   ev'n   now  her  love,  and  witnessed   first   her 
vows. 

IV. 

Now  labyrinths,  which  but  themselves  can  pierce, 
Methinks,  conduct  them  to  some  pleasant  ground, 
Where  welcome  hills  shut  out  the  universe, 
And  pines  their  lawny  walk  encompass  round ; 
There,  if  a  pause  delicious  converse  found, 
'Twas  but  when  o'er  each  heart  th'  idea  stole, 
(Perchance  awhile  in  joy's  oblivion  drowned) 
That  come  what  may,  while  life's  glad  pulses  roll, 
Indissolubly  thus  should  soul  be  knit  to  soul. 

v. 

And  in  the  visions  of  romantic  youth, ' 

What  years  of  endless  bliss  are  yet  to  flow ! 

But  mortal  pleasure,  what  art  thou  in  truth? 

The  torrent's  smoothness,  ere  it  dash  below  ! 

And  must  I  change  my  song  ?  and  must  I  show, 

Sweet  Wyoming !  the  day  when  thou  wert  doomed, 

Guiltless,  to  mourn  thy  loveliest  bowers  laid  low ! 

When  where  of  yesterday  a  garden  bloomed, 

Death  overspread  his  pall,  and  blackening  ashes  gloomed  ! 


Sad  was  the  year,  by  proud  oppression  driven, 
When  Transatlantic  Liberty  arose, 


96  CAMPBELL'S 


POEMS. 


frst  in  the  sunshine  and  the  smile  of  heaven, 
*/ut  wrapt  in  whirlwinds,  and  begirt  with  woes, 
Amidst  the  strife  of  fratricidal  foes ; 
Her  birth  star  was  the  light  of  burning  plains ;  * 
Her  baptism  is  the  weight  of  blood  that  flows 
From  kindred  hearts  —  the  blood  of  British  veins  — 
And  famine  tracks  her  steps,  and  pestilential  pains. 


Yet,  ere  the  storm  of  death  had  raged  remote, 
Or  siege  unseen  in  heaven  reflects  its  beams, 
Who  now  each  dreadful  circumstance  shall  note, 
That  fills  pale  Gertrude's  thoughts  and  nightly  dreams  ? 
Dismal  to  her  the  forge  of  battle  gleams 
Portentous  'light !    and  music's  voice  is  dumb  ; 
Save  where  the  fife  its  shrill  reveille  screams, 
Or  midnight  streets  ree'cho  to  the  drum, 
That  speaks  of  maddening  strife,  and  blood-stained  fields 
to  come. 

VIII. 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  momentary  pang ; 

Yet  how  comprising  myriad  shapes  of  wo ! 

First  when  in  Gertrude's  ear  the  summons  rang, 

A  husband  to  the  battle  doomed  to  go  ! 

"  Nay,  meet  not  thou,"  she  cries,  "  thy  kindred  foe ! 

But  peaceful  let  us  seek  fair  England's  strand  !  " 

"  Ah,  Gertrude,  thy  beloved  heart,  I  know, 

Would  feel  like  mine  the  stigmatizing  brand  ! 

Could  I  forsake  the  cause  of  Freedom's  holy  band ! 

EX. 

"  But  shame  —  but  flight  —  a  recreant's  name  to  prove, 
To  hide  in  exile  ignominious  fears ; 

*  Alluding  to  the  miseries  that  attended  the  American  civil  war. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  97 

Say,  ev'n  if  this  I  brooked,  the  public  love 
Thy  father's  bosom  to  his  home  endears : 
And  how  could  I  his  few  remaining  years, 
My  Gertrude,  sever  from  so  dear  a  child  ? " 
So,  day  by  day,  her  boding  heart  he  cheers : 
At  last  that  heart  to  hope  is  half  beguiled, 
And,  pale  through  tears  suppressed,  the  mournful  beauty 
smiled. 


Night  came,  —  and  in  their  lighted  bower,  full  late 
The  joy  of  converse  had  endured  —  when,  hark ! 
Abrupt  and  loud,  a  summons  shook  their  gate; 
And  heedless  of  the  dog's  obstrep'rous  bark, 
A  form  had  rushed  amidst  them  from  the  dark, 
And  spread  his  arms,  —  and  fell  upon  the  floor : 
Of  aged  strength  his  limbs  retained  the  mark ; 
But  desolate  he  looked,  and  famished  poor, 
As  ever  shipwrecked  wretch  lone  left  on  desert  shore. 


Uprisen,  each  wondering  brow  is  knit  and  arched ; 
A  spirit  from  the  dead  they  deem  him  first : 
To  speak  he  tries ;   but  quivering,  pale,  and  parched, 
From  lips,  as  by  some  powerless  dream  accursed, 
Emotions  unintelligible  burst; 
And  long  his  filmed  eye  is  red  and  dim  : 
At  length  the  pity-proffered  cup  his  thirst 
Had  half  assuaged,  and  nerved  his  shuddering  limb, 
When  Albert's  hand  he  grasped  —  but  Albert  knew  not 
him:  — 

xn. 

"  And  hast  thou  then  forgot,"  he  cried  forlorn, 
And  eyed  the  group  with  half  indignant  air  — 
"  Oh !  hast  thou,  Christian  chief,  forgot  the  morn 
When  I  with  thee  the  cup  of  peace  did  share? 
Then  stately  was  this  head,  and  dark  this  hair, 
9 


98  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

That  now  is  white  as  Appalachia's  snow ; 

But,  if  the  weight  of  fifteen  years'  despair, 

And  age  hath  bowed  me,  and  the  torturing  foe. 

Bring  me  my  boy !  —  and  he  will  his  deliverer  know ! " 


It  was  not  long,  with  eyes  and  heart  of  flame, 

Ere  Henry  to  his  loved  Oneida  flew : 

"  Bless  thee,  my  guide  !  "  —  but  backward,  as  he  came, 

The  chief  his  old  bewildered  head  withdrew, 

And  grasped  his  arm,  and  looked  and  looked  him  through. 

'Twas  strange  —  nor  could  the  group  a  smile  control, 

The  long,  the  doubtful  scrutiny  to  view : 

At  last  delight  o'er  all  his  features  stole, — 

"It  is  —  my  own,"  he  cried,  and  clasped  him  to  his  soul. 

xrv. 

"  Yes  !   thou  recall' st  my  pride  of  years,  for  then 

The  bowstring  of  my  spirit  was  not  slack, 

When,  spite  of  woods,  and  floods,  and  ambushed  men, 

I  bore  thee  like  the  quiver  on  my  back, 

Fleet  as  the  whirlwind  hurries  on  the  rack ; 

Nor  foeman  then,  nor  cougar's  crouch  I  feared,* 

For  I  was  strong  as  mountain  cataract : 

And  dost  thou  not  remember  how  we  cheered, 

Upon  the  last  hill-top,  when  white  men's  huts  appeared  * 


"  Then  welcome  be  my  death-song,  and  my  death  ! 
Since  I  have  seen  thee,  and  again  embraced." 
And  longer  had  he  spent  his  toil-worn  breath; 
But  with  affectionate  and  eager  haste, 
Was  every  arm  outstretched  around  their  guest, 

*  Cougar,  the  American  tiger 


CAMPBELLS     POEMS 


To  welcome  and  to  bless  his  aged  head. 

Soon  was  the  hospitable  banquet  placed ; 

And  Gertrude's  lovely  hands  a  balsam  shed 

On  wounds  with  fevered  joy  that  more  profusely  bled. 


"But  this  is  not  a  time," — he  started  up, 

And  smote  his  breast  with  wo-denouncing  hand  — 

"  This  is  no  time  to  fill  the  joyous  cup  ! 

The  Mammoth  comes  —  the  foe  —  the  Monster  Brandt ! 

With  all  his  howling  desolating  band ; 

These  eyes  have  seen  their  blade  and  burning  pine 

Awake  at  once,  and  silence  half  your  land. 

Red  is  the  cup  they  drink;  but  not  with  wine: 

Awake,  and  watch  to-night,  or  see  no  morning  shine ! 


"  Scorning  to  wield  the  hatchet  for  his  bribe, 

'Gainst  Brandt  himself  I  went  to  battle  forth : 

Accursed  Brandt !   he  left  of  all  my  tribe 

Nor  man,  nor  child,  nor  thing  of  living  birth : 

No !   not  the  dog  that  watched  my  household  hearth, 

Escaped  that  night  of  blood,  upon  our  plains  ! 

All  perished  !  —  I  alone  am  left  on  earth ! 

To  whom  nor  relative  nor  blood  remains, 

No  !  —  not  a  kindred  drop  that  runs  in  human  veins. 

XVIII. 

"  But  go  !  —  and  rouse  your  warriors  ;  —  for,  if  right 
These  old  bewildered  eyes  could  guess,  by  signs 
Of  striped  and  starred  banners,  on  yon  height 
Of  eastern  cedars,  o'er  the  creek  of  pines  — 
Some  fort  embattled  by  your  country  shines : 
Deep  roars  the  innavigable  gulf  below 
Its  squared  rock,  and  palisaded  lines. 


100  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Go !   seek  the  light  its  warlike  beacons  show ; 
Whilst  I  in  ambush  wait,  for  vengeance,  and  the  foe ! 


Scarce  had  he  uttered  —  when  Heaven's  verge  extreme 

Reverberates  the  bomb's  descending  star,  — 

And   sounds   that   mingled   laugh,  —  and   shout,  —  and 

To  freeze  the  blood  in  one  discordant  jar,        [scream, — 

Rung  to  the  pealing  thunderbolts  of  war. 

Whoop  after  whoop  with  rack  the  ear  assailed ; 

As  if  unearthly  fiends  had  burst  their  bar ; 

While  rapidly  the  marksman's  shot  prevailed :  — 

And  aye,  as  if  for  death,  some  lonely  trumpet  wailed. 


xx. 

Then  looked  they  to  the  hills,  where  fire  o'erhung 
The  bandit  groups,  hi  one  Vesuvian  glare ; 
Or  swept,  far  seen,  the  tower,  whose  clock  unrung 
Told  legible  that  midnight  of  despair. 
She  faints,  —  she  falters  not,  —  the  heroic  fair,  — 
As  he  the  sword  and  plume  in  haste  arrayed. 
One  short  embrace  —  he  clasped  his  dearest  care  — 
But  hark !    what  nearer  war-drum  shakes  the  glade  ? 
J°y»  j°7  !   Columbia's  friends  are  trampling  through  the 
shade ! 


Then  came  of  every  race  the  mingled  swarm, 

Far  rung  the  groves  and  gleamed  the  midnight  grass, 

With  flambeau,  javelin,  and  naked  arm ; 

As  warriors  wheeled  their  culverins  of  brass, 

Sprung  from  the  woods,  a  bold  athletic  mass, 

Whom  virtue  fires,  and  liberty  combines : 

And  first  the  wild  Moravian  yagers  pass, 

His  plumed  host  the  dark  Iberian  joins  — 

And  Scotia's  sword  beneath  the  Highland  thistle  shines. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  101 


And  in,  the  buskined  hunters  of  the  deer, 

To  Albert's  home,  with  shout  and  cymbal  throng:  — 

Roused  by  their  warlike  pomp,  and  mirth,  and  cheer, 

Old  Outalissi  woke  his  battle  song, 

And,  beating  with  his  war-club  cadence  strong, 

Tells  how  his  deep-stung  indignation  smarts, 

Of  them  that  wrapt  his  house  in  flames,  ere  long, 

To  whet  a  dagger  on  their  stony  hearts, 

And  smile  avenged  ere  yet  his  eagle  spirit  parts. — 


Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  father  rose, 

Pale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 

Of  martyr  light  the  conflagration  throws  ; 

One  hand  upon  his  lovely  child  he  lays, 

And  one  the  uncovered  crowd  to  silence  sways; 

While,  though  the  battle  flash  is  faster  driven,— 

Unawed,  with  eye  unstartled  by  the  blaze, 

He  for  his  bleeding  country  prays  to  Heaven,  — 

Prays  that  the  men  of  blood  themselves  may  be  forgiven. 

XXIV. 

Short  time  is  now  for  gratulating  speech : 

And  yet,  beloved  Gertrude,  ere  began 

Thy  country's  flight,  yon  distant  towers  to  reach, 

Looked  not  on  thee  the  rudest  partisan 

"With  brow  relaxed  to  love  ?    And  murmurs  ran, 

As  round  and  round  their  willing  ranks  they  drew, 

From  beauty's  sight  to  shield  the  hostile  van. 

Grateful,  on  them  a  placid  look  she  threw, 

Nor  wept,  but  as  she  bade  her  mother's  grave  adieu ! 


Past  was  the  flight,  and  welcome  seemed  the  tower, 
That  like  a  giant  standard-bearer  frowned 


103 


CAMPBELLS      POEMS. 


Defiance  on  the  roving  Indian  power, 

Beneath,  each  bold  and  promontory  niound 

With  embrasure  embossed,  and  armor  crowned, 

And  arrowy  frize,  and  wedged  ravelin, 

Wove  like  a  diadem  its  tracery  round 

The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green ; 

Here  stood  secure  the  group,  and  eyed  a  distant  scene,  • 


A  scene  of  death!   where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 

And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow ; 

And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done. 

Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seemed  to  blow : 

There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  wo  ! 

The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 

Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasped  her  hands  of  snow 

On  Waldegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 

Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hushed  its  wild  alarm ! 


But  short  that  contemplation  —  sad  and  short 

The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu  ! 

Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort, 

Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners  flew; 

Ah !   who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 

Was  near !  —  yet  there,  with  lust  of  murderous  deeds, 

Gleamed  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view, 

The  ambushed  foeman's  eye  —  his  volley  speeds, 

And  Albert  —  Albert  falls  !   the  dear  old  father  bleeds  I 

XXVIII. 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror  Gertrude  swooned ; 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 
Say,  burst  they,  borrowed  from  her  father's  wound, 
These  drops  ?  —  Oh,  God  !   the  life-blood  is  her  own  ! 
And  faltering,  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown-" 


103 

"Weep  not,  O  Love  !"  —  she  cries,  "to  see  me  bleed  — 
Thee,  Getrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate ;  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds  ;  —  yet   thee  to  leave  is  death,  is  death 
indeed  ! 


"  Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  !   while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress ; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat  —  oh  !   thimc, 

And  let  it  mitigate  thy  wo's  excess, 

That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 

And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 

Oh !    by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 

And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs  —  when  I  am  laid  in  dust ! 


"Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart, 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 

Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 

And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 

With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  tho  grove 

Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

In  heaven ;   for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last? 

No !   I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  ia  past.  • 


Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth,  — 

And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 

If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  pledge ;  —  but  shall  there  then  be  none, 

In  future  times  —  no  gentle  little  one, 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me? 

Yet  seems  it,  ev'n  while  life's  last  pulses  run. 


104  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love !   to  die  beholding  thee ! 


Hushed  were  his  Gertrude's  lips  !   but  still  their  bland 
And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die !    and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah,  heart !   where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 
Mute,  gazing,  agonizing  as  he  knelt,  — 
Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair, 
He  heard  some   friendly  words;  —  but   knew   not   what 
they  were. 

XXXHI. 

For  now,  to  mourn  their  judge  and  child,  arrives 
A  faithful  band.     With  solemn  rites  between 
'Twas  sung,  how  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives, 
And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 
Touched  by  the  music,  and  the  melting  scene, 
Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd. — 
Stern  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  seen 
To  veil  their  eyes,  as  passed  each  much-loved  shroud 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  wo  dissolved  aloud. 


Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 

Its  farewell,  o'er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth; 

Prone  to  the  dust,  afflicted  Waldegrave  hid 

His  face  on  earth ;  —  him  watched,  in  gloomy  ruth, 

His  woodland  guide :   but  words  had  none  to  soothe 

The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation's  name : 

Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth, 

He  watched,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that  came 

Convulsive,  ague-like,  across  his  shuddering  frame ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  105 

xxxv. 

"And  I  could  weep"  —  th'  Oneida  chief 

His  descant  wildly  thus  begun: 

"But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 

The  death-song  of  my  father's  son, 

Or  bow  this  head  in  wo  ! 

For  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath! 

To-morrow  Areouski's  breath, 

(That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death,) 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe : 

And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy! 

The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy ! 


XXXVI. 

"But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given 

By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep, 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 

Forbid  not  thee  to  weep : 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 

Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve, 

To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve, 

Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 

Of  her  who  loved  thee  most: 

She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight! 

Thy  sun  —  thy  heaven  —  of  lost  delight  f 


xxxvu. 

"  To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die ! 

But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurled, 

Ah !   whither  then  with  thee  to  fly, 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world? 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropped  its  flowers  I 

Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours ! 


106  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bowers ! 
And  should  we  thither  roam, 
Its  echoes,  and  its  empty  tread, 
Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead ! 


"Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue, 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaffed, 

And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft? 

Ah !   there,  in  desolation  cold, 

The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone, 

Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mouldering  bone» 

And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown, 

•Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp,  —  for  there 

The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair  I 


••  But  hark,  the  trump  !  —  to-morrow  thou 
In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears : 
Ev*n  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears, 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll; 
He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst  — 
He  bids  me  dry  the  last  —  the  first  — 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi's  soul ; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief! 


THEODR1C: 

A      DOMESTIC      TALE 


THEODRIC: 

A      DOMESTIC      TALE 


'TWAS  sunset,  and  the  Ranz  des  Vaches  was  sung, 
And  lights  were  o'er  the  Helvetian  mountains  flung, 
That  gave  the  glacier  tops  their  richest  glow, 
And  tinged  the  lakes  like  molten  gold  below. 
Warmth  flushed  the  wonted  regions  of  the  storm, 
Where,  Phoenix-like,  you  saw  the  eagle's  form, 
That  high  in  Heaven's  vermilion    wheeled  and  soared, 
Woods  nearer  frowned,  and  cataracts  dashed  and  roared 
From  heights  browned  by  the  bounding  bouquetin ; 
Herds  tinkling  roamed  the  long-drawn  vales  between, 
And  hamlets  glittered  white,  and  gardens  flourished  green, 
'Twas  transport  to  inhale  the  bright  sweet  air  ! 
The  mountain-bee  was  revelling  in  its  glare, 
And  roving  with  his  minstrelsy  across 
The  scented  wild  weeds,  and  enamelled  moss. 
Earth's  features  so  harmoneously  were  linked, 
She  seemed  one  great  glad  form,  with  life  instinct, 
That  felt  Heaven's  ardent  breath,  and  smiled  below 
Its  flush  of  love,  with  consentaneous  glow. 

A  Gothic  church  was  near ;    the  spot  around 
Was  beautiful,  even  though  sepulchral  ground ; 
"For  there  nor  yew  nor  cypress  spread  their  gloom, 
But  roses  blossomed  by  each  rustic  tomb. 
10 


110  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS 

Amidst  them,  one  of  spotless  marble  shone  — 
A  maiden's  grave  —  and  'twas  inscribed  thereon, 
That  young  and  loved  she  died  whose  dust  was  there  : 

"  Yes,"  said  my  comrade,  "  young  she  died,  and  fair  ! 
Grace  formed  her,  and  the  soul  of  gladness  played 
Once  in  the  blue  eyes  of  that  mountain-maid : 
Her  fingers  witched  the  chords  they  passed  along, 
And  her  lips  seemed  to  kiss  the  soul  in  song  : 
Yet  wooed,  and  worshipped  as  she  was,  till  few 
Aspired  to  hope,  'twas  sadly,  strangely  true, 
That  heart,  the  martyr  of  its  fondness,  burned 
And  died  of  love  that  could  not  be  returned. 


"Her  father  dwelt  where  yonder  Castle  shines 

O'er  clustering  trees  and  terrace-mantling  vines. 

As  gay  as  ever,  the  laburnum's  pride 

Waves  o'er  each  walk  where  she  was  wont  to  glide,— 

And  still  the  garden  whence  she  grazed  her  brow, 

As  lovely  blooms,  though  trocle  by  strangers  now. 

How  oft,  from  yonder  window  o'er  the  lake, 

Her  song  of  wild  Helvetian  swell  and  shake 

Has  made  the  rudest  fisher  bend  his  car 

And  rest  enchanted  on  his  oar  to  hear  ! 

Thus  bright,  accomplished,  spirited,  and  bland, 

Well-born,  and  wealthy  for  that  simple  land, 

Why  had  no  gallant,  native  youth  the  art 

To  win  so  warm  —  so  exquisite  a  heart  ? 

She,  'midst  these  rocks  inspired  with  feelings  strong 

By  mountain-freedom  —  music  —  fancy  —  song, 

Herself  descended  from  the  brave  in  arms, 

And  conscious  of  romance-inspiring  charms, 

Dreamt  of  Heroic  beings ;   hoped  to  find 

Some  extant  spirit  of  chivalric  kind ; 

And  scorning  wealth,  looked  cold  even  on  the  claim 

Of  manly  worth,  that  lacked  the  wreath  of  fame. 


S      POEMS.  Ill 

"  Her  younger  brother,  sixteen  summers  old, 

And  much  her  likeness  both  in  mind  and  mould, 

Had  gone,  poor  boy  !    in  soldiership  to  shine, 

And  bore  an  Austrian  banner  on  the  Rhine. 

'T\vas  when,  alas  !    our  Empire's  evil  star 

Shed  all  the  plagues,  without  the  pride  of  war ; 

When  patriots  bled,  and  bitterer  anguish  crossed 

Our  brave,  to  die  in  battles  foully  lost. 

The  youth  wrote  home  the  rout  of  many  a  day ; 

Yet  still  he  said,  and  still  with  truth  could  say, 

One  corps  had  ever  made  a  valiant  stand,— 

The  corps  in  which  he  served,  —>-  THEODIUC'S  band. 

His  fame,  forgotten  chief,  is  now  gone  by, 

Eclipsed  by  brighter  orbs  in  Glory's  sky; 

Yet  once  it  shone,  and  veterans,  when  they  show 

Our  fields  of  battle  twenty  years  ago, 

Will  tell  you  feats  Ms  small  brigade  performed, 

In  charges  nobly  faced,  and  trenches  stormed. 

Time  was,  when  songs  were  chanted  to  his  fame, 

And  soldiers  loved  the  march  that  bore  his  name : 

The  zeal  of  martial  hearts  was  at  his  call, 

And  that  Helvetian's,  UDOLPH'S,  most  of  all. 

'Twas  touching,  when  the  storm  of  war  blew  wild, 

To  see  a  blooming  boy,  —  almost  a  child,  — 

Spur  fearless  at  his  leader's  words  and  signs, 

Brave  death  in  reconnoitring  hostile  lines, 

And  speed  each  task,  and  tell  each  message  clear, 

In  scenes  where  war-trained  men  were  stunned  with  fear, 

"THEODRIC  praised  him,  and  they  wept  for  joy 

In  yonder  house,  —  when  letters  from  the  boy 

Thanked  Heaven  for  life,  and  more,  to  use  his  phrase, 

Than  twenty  lives  —  his  own  Commander's  praise. 

Then  followed  glowing  pages,  blazoning  forth 

The  fancied  image  of  his  leader's  worth, 

With  such  hyperboles  of  youthful  styles 

As  made  his  parents  dry  their  tears  and  smile  : 


J12  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

But  differently  far  his  words  impressed 

A  wondering  sister's  well-believing  breast ;  — 

She  caught  the  illusion,  blessed  THEODBIC'S  name, 

And  wildly  magnified  his  worth  and  fame ; 

Rejoicing  life's  reality  contained 

One,  heretofore,  her  fancy  had  but  feigned, 

Whose  love   could  make   her   proud  !  —  and   time  and 

chance 
To  passion  raised  that  day-dream  of  Romance. 

"  Once,  when  with  hasty  charge  of  horse  and  man 
Our  arriere-guard  had  checked  the  Gallic  van, 
THEODRIC,  visiting  the  outposts,  found 
His  UDOLPH  wounded,  weltering  on  the  ground : 
Sore  crushed,  —  half- swooning,  half- upraised  he  lay, 
And  bent  his  brow,  fair  boy!  and  grasped  the  clay. 
His  fate  moved  even  the  common  soldier's  ruth  — 
THEODRIC  succored  him;  nor  left  the  youth 
To  vulgar  hands,  but  brought  him  to  his  tent, 
And  lent  what  aid  a  brother  would  have  lent. 

"  Meanwhile,  to  save  his  kindred  half  the  smart 
The  war-gazette's  dread  blood-roll  might  impart, 
He  wrote  th'  event  to  them ;  and  soon  could  tell 
Of  pains  assuaged  and  symptoms  auguring  well ; 
And  last  of  all,  prognosticating  cure, 
Enclosed  the  leech's  vouching  signature. 

"  Their  answers,  on  whose  pages  you  might  note 
That  tears  had  fallen,  while  trembling  fingers  wrote, 
Gave  boundless  thanks  for  benefits  conferred, 
Of  which  the  boy,  in  secret,  sent  them  word, 
"Whose  memory  Time,  they  said,  would  never  blot; 
But  which  the  giver  had  himself  forgot. 

"  In  time,  the  stripling,  vigorous  and  healed, 
Resumed  his  barb  and  banner  in  the  field, 


CJ  A  M  P  B  E  I.  L  '  S     I'  O  K  M  8  .  1  13 

And  bore  himself  right  soldier-like,  till  now 

The  tliird  campaign  had  manlier  bronzed  his  brow, 

When  peace,  though  but  a  scanty  pause  for  breath,  — 

A  curtain-drop  between  the  acts  of  death,  — 

A  check  in  frantic  war's  unfinished  game, 

Yet  dearly  bought,  and  dircly  welcome,  came. 

The  camp  broke  up,  and  UDOLI>H  left  his  chief 

As  with  a  son's  or  younger  brother's  grief: 

But  journeying  home,  how  rapt  his  spirits  rose  ! 

How  light  his  footsteps  crushed  St.  Gothard's  snows  ! 

How  dear  seemed  ev'n  the  waste  and  wild  Shreckhorn, 

Though  rapt  in  clouds,  and  frowning  as  in  scorn 

Upon  a  downward  world  of  pastoral  charms  ; 

Where,  by  the  very  smell  of  dairy-farms, 

And  fragrance  from  the  mountain-herbage  blown, 

Blindfold  his  native  hills  he  could  have  known  ! 


"  His  coming  down  yon  lake  —  his  boat  in 

Of  windows  where  love's  fluttering  kerchief  flew  — 

The  arms  spread  out  for  him  —  the  tears  that  burst  — 

('Twas  JULIA'S,  'twas  his  sister's,  met  him  first  :) 

Their  pride  to  see  war's  medal  at  his  breast, 

And  all  their  raptxire's  greeting  may  be  guessed. 

"Ere  long,  his  bosom  triumphed  to  unfold 
A  gift  he  meant  their  gayest  room  to  hold  — 
The  picture  of  a  friend  in  warlike  dress; 
And  who  it  was  he  first  bade  JULIA  guess. 
'  Yes,'  she  replied,  '  'twas  he  methought  in  sleep, 
When  you  were  wounded,  told  me  not  to  weep.' 
The  painting  long  in  that  sweet  mansion  drew 
Regards  its  living  semblance  little  knew. 

"  Meanwhile  TIIEODIUC,  who  had  years  before 
Learned  England's  tongue,  and  loved  her  classic  lore, 
A  glad  enthusiast,  now  explored  the  land, 
Where  Nature,  Freedom,  Art,  smile  hand  in  hand  ; 
10* 


114  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

Her  women  fair ;   her  men  robust  for  toil ; 
Her  vigorous  souls,  high-cultured  as  her  soil ; 
Her  towns,  where  civic  independence  flings 
The  gauntlet  down  to  senates,  courts,  and  kings; 
Her  works  of  art,  resembling  magic's  powers ; 
Her  mighty  fleets,  and  learning's  beauteous  bowers, 
These  he  had  visited  with  wonder's  smile, 
And  scarce  endured  to  quit  so  fair  an  isle. 

"  But  how  our  fates  from  unmomentous  things 

May  rise,  like  rivers  out  of  little  springs  ! 

A  trivial  chance  postponed  his  parting  day, 

And  public  tidings  caused,  in  that  delay, 

An  English  Jubilee.     'Twas  a  glorious  sight; 

At  eve  stupendous  London,  clad  in  light, 

Poured  out  triumphant  multitudes  to  gaze; 

Youth,  age,  wealth,  penury,'  smiling  in  the  blaze ; 

Th'  illumined  atmosphere  was  warm  and  bland, 

And  Beauty's  groups,  the  fairest  of  the  land, 

Conspicuous,  as  in  some  wide  festive  room, 

In  open  chariot's  passed  with  pearl  and  plume. 

Amidst  them  he  remarked  a  lovelier  mien 

Than  e'er  his  thoughts  had  shaped,  or  eyes  had  seen; 

The  throng  detained  her  till  he  reined  his  steed, 

And,  ere  the  beauty  passed,  had  time  to  read 

The  motto  and  the  arms  her  carriage  bore. 

Led  by  that  clue,  he  left  not  England's  shore 

Till  he  had  known  her;    and  to  know  her  well 

Prolonged,  exalted,  bound,  enchantment's  spell ; 

For  with  affections  warm,  intense,  refined, 

She  mixed  such  calm  and  holy  strength  of  mind, 

That,  like  Heaven's  image  in  the  smiling  brook, 

Celestial  peace  was  pictured  in  her  look. 

Hers  was  the  brow,  in  trials  unperplexed, 

That  cheered  the  sad,  and  tranquillized  the  vexed ; 

She  studied  not  the  meanest  to  eclipse, 

And  yet  the  wisest  listened  to  her  lips; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  115 

She  sang  not,  knew  not  Music's  magic  skill, 
But  yet  her  voice  had  tones  that  swayed  the  will. 
He  sought — he  won  her  —  and  resolved  to  make 
His  future  home  in  England  for  her  sake. 

"Yet,  ere  they  wedded,  matters  of  concern 

To  CAESAR'S  Court  commanded  his  return, 

A  season's  space,  —  and  on  his  Alpine  way, 

He  reached  those  bowers,  that  rang  with  joy  that  day: 

The  boy  was  half  beside  himself — the  sire, 

All  frankness,  honor,  and  Helvetian  fire, 

Of  speedy  parting  would  not  hear  him  speak; 

And  tears  bedewed  and  brightened  JULIA'S  cheek. 

"Thus,  loath  to  wound  their  hospitable  pride, 

A  month  he  promised  with  them  to  abide ; 

As  blithe  he  trod  the  mountain-sward  as  they, 

And  felt  his  joy  make  ev'n  the  young  more  gay. 

How  jocund  was  their  breakfast-parlor,  fanned 

By  yon  blue  water's  breath  —  their  walks  how  bland! 

Fair  JULIA  seemed  her  brother's  softened  sprite  — 

A  gem  reflecting  Nature's  purest  light  — 

And  with  her  graceful  wit  there  was  inwrought 

A  wildly  sweet  unworldliness  of  thought, 

That  almost  child-like  to  his  kindness  drew, 

And  twin,  with  UDOLPH  in  his  friendship  grew. 

But  did  his  thoughts  to  love  one  moment  range  ! 

No  !   he  who  had  loved  CONSTANCE  could  not  change ! 

Besides,  till  grief  betrayed  her  undesigned, 

Th'  unlikely  thought  could  scarcely  reach  his  mind, 

That  eyes  so  young  on  years  like  his  should  beam 

Unwooed  devotion  back  for  pure  esteem. 

"True  she  sang  to  his  very  soul,  and  brought 
Those  trains  before  him  of  luxuriant  thought, 
Which  only  Music's  Heaven-born  art  can  bring, 
To  sweep  across  the  mind  with  angel  wing. 


116  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Once,  as  he  smiled  amidst  that  waking  trance, 
She  paused  o'ercome :   he  thought  it  might  be  chance, 
And,  when  his  first  suspicions  dimly  stole, 
Rebuked  them  back  like  phantoms  from  his  soul. 
But  wrhen  he  saw  his  caution  gave  her  pain, 
And  kindness  brought  suspense's  rack  again, 
Faith,  honor,  friendship,  bound  him,  to  unmask 
Truths  which  her  timid  fondness  feared  to  ask. 

"And  yet  with  gracefully  ingenuous  power 

Her  spirit  met  th'  explanatory  hour; 

Ev'n  conscious  beauty  brightened  in  her  eyes, 

That  told  she  knew  their  love  no  vulgar  prize; 

And  pride,  like  that  of  one  more  woman-grown, 

Enlarged  her  mien,  enriched  her  voice's  tone. 

'Twas  then  she  struck  the  keys,  and  music  made 

That  mocked  all  skill  her  hand  had  e'er  displayed: 

Inspired  and  warbling,  rapt  from  things  around, 

She  looked  the  very  Muse  of  magic  sound, 

Painting  in  sound  the  forms  of  joy  and  wo, 

Until  the  mind's  eye  saw  them  melt  and  glow. 

Her  closing  strain  composed  and  calm  she  played, 

And  sang  no  words  to  give  its  pathos  aid ; 

But  grief  seemed  lingering  in  its  lengthened  swell, 

And  like  so  many  tears  the  trickling  touches  fell. 

Of  CONSTANCE  then  she  heard  THEODRIC  speak, 

And  steadfast  smoothness  still  possessed  her  cheek. 

But  when  he  told  her  how  he  oft  had  planned 

Of  old  a  journey  to  their  mountain-land, 

That  might  have  brought  him  hither  years  before, — 

4  Ah!  then,'  she  cried,  <  you  knew  not  England's  shore; 

And,  had  you  come,  —  and  wherefore  did  you  not  ? ' 

4  Yes,'  he  replied,  '  it  would  have  changed  our  lot ! ' 

Then  burst  her  tears  through  pride's  restraining  bands, 

And  with  her  handkerchief,  and  both  her  hands, 

She  hid  her  voice  and  wept.     Contrition  stung 

THEODRIC  for  the  tears  his  words  had  wrung. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  117 

1  But  no,'  she  cried,  •  unsay  not  what  you're  said, 

Nor  grudge  one  prop  on  which  my  pride  is  stayed ; 

To  think  I  could  have  merited  your  faith 

Shall  be  my  solace  even  unto  death ! ' 

'  JULIA,'  THEODBJC  said,  with  purposed  look 

Of  firmness,  <  my  reply  deserved  rebuke ; 

But  by  your  pure  and  sacred  peace  of  mind, 

And  by  the  dignity  of  womankind, 

Swear  that  when  I  am  gone  you'll  do  your  best 

To  chase  this  dream  of  fondness  from  your  breast.' 


"  Th'  abrupt  appeal  electrified  her  thought ;  — 
She  looked  to  Heav'n  as  if  its  aid  she  sought, 
Dried  hastily  the  tear-drops  from  her  cheek, 
And  signified  the  vow  she  could  not  speak. 

"Ere  long  he  communed  with  her  mother  mild: 

'  Alas  ! '  she  said,  « I  warned  —  conjured  my  child, 

And  grieved  for  this  aifection  from  the  first, 

But  like  fatality  it  has  been  nursed ; 

For  when  her  filled  eyes  on  your  picture  fixed, 

And  when  your  name  in  all  she  spoke  was  mixed, 

'Twas  hard  to  chide  an  over-grateful  mind  ! 

Then  each  attempt  a  likelier  choice  to  find 

Made  only  fresh-rejected  suitors  grieve, 

And  UDOLPH'S  pride  —  perhaps  her  own  —  believe 

That,  could  she  meet,  she  might  enchant  ev'n  you. 

You  came.  —  I  augured  the  event,  'tis  true,  — 

But  how  was  UDOLPH'S  mother  to  exclude 

The  guest  that  claimed  our  boundless  gratitude? 

And  that  unconscious  you  had  cast  a  spell 

On  JULIA'S  peace,  my  pride  refused  to  tell : 

Yet  in  my  child's  illusion  I  have  seen, 

Believe  me  well,  how  blameless  you  have  been  : 

Nor  can  it  cancel,  howsoe'er  it  end, 

Our  debt  of  friendship  to  our  boy's  best  friend.' 


118  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

At  night  lie  parted  with  the  aged  pair ; 
At  early  morn  rose  JULIA  to  prepare 
The  last  repast  her  hands  for  him  should  make : 
And  UDOLPH  to  convoy  him  o  er  the  lake. 
The  parting  was  to  her  such  bitter  grief, 
That  of  her  own  accord  she  made  ii  brief; 
But,  lingering  at  her  window,  long  surveyed 
His  boat's  last  glimpses  melting  into  shade. 

"  TitEODRio  sped  to  Austria,  and  achieved 
His  journey's  object.    Much  was  he  relieved 
When  UDOLPH' s  letters  told  that  JULIA'S  mind 
Had  borne  his  loss  firm,  tranquil,  and  resigned. 
He  took  the  Rhenish  route  to  England,  high 
Elate  with  hopes,  fulfilled  their  ecstacy, 
And  interchanged  with  CONSTANCE'S  own  breath 
The  sweet  eternal  vows  that  bound  their  faith. 

"  To  paint  that  being  to  a  grovelling  mind 

Were  like  portraying  pictures  to  the  blind. 

'Twas  needful  ev'n  infectiously  to  feel 

Her  temper's  fond  and  firm  and  gladsome  zeal, 

To  share  existence  with  her,  and  to  gam 

Sparks  from  her  love's  electrifying  chain 

Of  that  pure  pride,  which,  lessening  to  her  breast 

Life's  ills,  gave  all  its  joys  a  treble  zest, 

Before  the  mind  completely  understood 

That  mighty  truth  —  how  happy  are  the  good! 

"Ev'n  when  her  light  forsook  him,  it  bequeathed 
Ennobling  sorrow  ;    and  her  memory  breathed 
A  sweetness  that  survived  her  living  days, 
As  odorous  scents  outlast  the  censer's  blaze. 

"  Or,  if  a  trouble  dimmed  their  golden  joy, 
'Twas  outward  dross,  and  not  infused  alloy  • 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  119 

Their  home  knew  but  affection's  looks  and  speech  — 

A  little  Heaven,  above  dissension's  reach. 

But  'midst  her  kindred  there  was  strife  and  gall ; 

Save  one  congenial  sister,  they  were  all 

Such  foils  to  her  bright  intellect  and  grace, 

As  if  she  had  engrossed  the  virtue  of  her  race. 

Her  nature  strove  th'  unnatural  feuds  to  heal, 

Her  -wisdom  made  the  weak  to  her  appeal ; 

And,  though  the  wounds  she  cured  were  soon  unclosed, 

Unwearied  still  her  kindness  interposed. 


"  Oft  on  those  errands  though  she  went  in  vain, 

And  home,  a  blank  without  her,  gave  him  pain, 

He  bore  her  absence  for  its  pious  end.  — 

But  public  grief  his  spirit  came  to  bend; 

For  war  laid  waste  liis  native  land  once  more, 

And  German  honor  bled  at  every  pore. 

Oh !   were  he  there,  he  thought,  to  rally  back 

One  broken  band,  or  perish  in  the  wrack  ! 

Nor  think  that  CONSTANCE  sought  to  move  and  melt 

His  purpose :   like  herself  she  spoke  and  felt :  — 

'Your  fame  is  mine,  and  I  will  bear  all  wo 

Except  its  loss  !  —  but  with  you  let  me  go 

To  arm  you  for,  to  embrace  you  from,  the  fight ; 

Harm  will  not  reach  me  —  hazards  will  delight ! ' 

He  knew  those  hazards  better ;   one  campaign 

In  England  he  conjured  her  to  remain, 

And  she  expressed  assent,  although  her  heart 

In  secret  had  resolved  they  should  not  part. 

"How  oft  the  wisest  on  misfortune's  shelves 

Are  wrecked  by  errors  most  unlike  themselves  ! 

That  little  fault,  that  fraud  of  love's  romance, 

That  plan's  concealment,  wrought  their  whole  mischance, 

He  knew  it  not  preparing  to  embark, 

But  felt  extinct  his  comfort's  latest  spark, 


120  CAMPBELL'S 


POEMS, 


When,  'midst  those  numbered  days,  she  made  repair 

Again  to  kindred  worthless  of  her  care. 

'Tis  true  she  said  the  tidings  she  would  write 

Would  make  her  absence  on  his  heart  sit  light ; 

But,  haplessly,  revealed  not  yet  her  plan, 

And  left  him  in  his  home  a  lonely  man. 

"  Thus  damped  in  thoughts,  he  mused  upon  the  past 

'Twas  long  since  he  had  heard  from  UDOLPH  last, 

And  deep  misgivings  on  his  spirit  fell 

That  all  with  UDOLPH'S  household  was  not  well. 

'Twas  that  too  true  prophetic  mood  of  fear 

That  augurs  griefs  inevitably  near, 

Yet  makes  them  not  less  startling  to  the  mind 

When  come.     Least  looked-for  then  of  human  kind, 

His  UDOLPH  ('twas,  he  thought,  at  first,  his  sprite,) 

With  mournful  joy  that  morn  surprised  his  sight. 

How  changed  was  UDOLPH  !     Scarce  THEODRIC  durst 

Inquire  his  tidings ;  —  he  revealed  the  worst. 

'  At  first,'  he  said,  '  as  JULIA  bade  me  tell, 

She  bore  her  fate  high-mindedly  and  well, 

Resolved  from  common  eyes  her  grief  to  hide, 

And  from  the  world's  compassion  saved  our  pride ; 

But  still  her  health  gave  way  to  secret  wo, 

And  long  she  pined  —  for  broken  hearts  die  slow ! 

Her  reason  went,  but  came  returning,  like 

The  warning  of  her  death-hour  —  soon  to  strike ; 

And  all  for  which  she  now,  poor  sufferer  !  sighs, 

Is  once  to  see  THEODKIC  ere  she  dies. 

Why  should  I  como  to  tell  you  this  caprice  ? 

Forgive  me  !   for  my  mind  has  lost  its  peace. 

I  blame  myself,  and  ne'er  shall  cease  to  blame, 

That  my  insane  ambition  for  the  name 

Of  brother  to  THEODRIC,  founded  all 

Those  high-built  hopes  that  crushed  her  by  their  fall 

I  made  her  slight  her  mother's  counsel  sage, 

Bnt  now  my  parents  droop  with  grief  and  age; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  12] 

And,  though  my  sister's  eyes  mean  110  rebuke, 

They  overwhelm  me  with  their  dying  look. 

The  journey's  long,  but  you  are  full  of  ruth ; 

And  she  who  shares  your  heart,  and  knows  its  truth, 

Has  faith  in  your  affection,  far  above 

The  fear  of  a  poor  dying  object's  love.'  — 

•She  has,  my  UDOLPH,'  he  replied,  ''tis  true; 

And  oft  we  talk  of  JULIA  —  oft  of  you.' 

Their  converse  came  abruptly  to  a  close; 

For  scarce  could  each  his  troubled  looks  compose, 

When  visitants,  to  CONSTANCE  near  akin, 

(In  all  but  traits  of  soul,)  were  ushered  in. 

They  brought  not  her,  nor  midst  their  kindred  band 

The  sister  who  alone, "like  her,  was  bland ; 

But  said  —  and  smiled  to  see  it  give  him  pain  — 

That  CONSTANCE  would  a  fortnight  yet  remain. 

Vexed  by  their  tidings,  and  the  haughty  view 

They  cast  on  UDOLPH  as  the  youth  withdrew, 

THEODB.IC  blamed  his  CONSTANCE'S  intent. 

"The  demons  went,  and  left  him  as  they  went 
To  read,  when  they  were  gone  beyond  recall, 
A  note  from  her  loved  hand  explaining  all. 
She  said,  that  with  their  house  she  only  stayed 
That  parting  peace  might  with  them  all  be  made. 
But  prayed  for  love  to  share  his  foreign  life, 
And  shun  all  future  chance  of  kindred  strife. 
He  wrote  with  speed,  his  soul's  consent  to  say  : 
The  letter  missed  her  on  her  homeward  way. 
In  six  hours  CONSTANCE  was  within  his  arms : 
Moved,  flushed,  unlike  her  wonted  calm  of  charms, 
And  breathless  —  with  uplifted*  hands  outspread  — 
Burst  into  tears  upon  his  neck,  and  said,  — 
'I  knew  that  those  who  brought  your  message  laughed, 
With  poison  of  their  own  to  point  the  shaft ; 
And  this  my  one  kind  sister  thought,  yet  loath 
Confessed  she  feared  'twas  true  you  had  been  wroth. 
11 


122  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

But  here  you  are,  and  sinile  on  me  :  my  pain 
Is  gone,  and  CONSTANCE  is  herself  again.' 
His  ecstacy,  it  may  be  guessed,  was  much : 
Yet  pain's  extreme  and  pleasure's  seemed  to  touch. 
What  pride  !  embracing  beauty's  perfect  mould ; 
What  terror  !  lest  his  few  rash  words,  mistold, 
Had  agonized  her  pulse  to  fever's  heat : 
But  calmed  again  so  soon  it  healthful  beat, 
And  such  sweet  tones  were  in  her  voice's  sound, 
Composed  herself,  she  breathed  composure  round. 

"  Fair  being  !  with  whai  sympathetic  grace 

She  heard,  bewailed,  and  pleaded  JULIA'S  case; 

Implored  he  would  her  dying  wish  attend, 

'  And  go,'  she  said,  '  to-morrow  with  your  friend ; 

I'll  wait  for  your  return  on  England's  shore, 

And  then  we'll  cross  the  deep,  and  part  no  more.' 

"To-morrow  both  his  soul's  compassion  drew 

To  JULIA'S  call,  and  CONSTANCE  urged  anew 

That  not  to  heed  her  now  would  be  to  bind 

A  load  of  pain  for  life  upon  his  mind. 

He  went  with  UDOLPH  —  from  his  CONSTANCE  went  — 

Stifling,  alas  !  a  dark  presentiment 

Some  aliment  lurked,  ev'n  whilst  she  smiled,  to  mock 

His  fears  of  harm  from  yester-morning's  shock. 

Meanwhile  a  faithful  page  he  singled  out, 

To  watch  at  home,  and  follow  straight  his  route, 

If  aught  of  threatened  change  her  health  should  show 

—  With  UDOLPH  then  he  reached  the  house  of  wo. 

"That  winter's  eve  how  darkly  Nature's  brow 
Scowled  on  the  scenes  it  lights  so  lovely  now  ! 
The  tempest,  raging  o'er  the  realms  of  ice, 
Shook  fragments  from  the  rifted  precipice ; 
And,  whilst  their  falling  echoed  to  the  wind, 
The  wolfs  long  howl  in  dismal  discord  joined, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  !!£> 

While  white  yon  water's  foam  was  raised  in  clouds 
That  whirled  like  spirits  wailing  in  their  shrouds : 
Without  was  Nature's  elemental  din  — 
And  beauty  died,  and  friendship  wept,  within 

"  Sweet  JULIA,  though  her  fate  was  finished  half, 

Still  knew  him  —  smiled  on  him  with  feeble  laugh  — 

And  blessed  him,  till  she  drew  her  latest  sigh ! 

But  lo  !  while  UDOLPH'S  bursts  of  agony, 

And  age's  tremulous  wailings,  round  him  rose, 

What  accents  pierced  him  deeper  yet  than  those  ! 

'Twas  tidings,  by  his  English  messenger, 

Of  CONSTANCE  —  brief  and  terrible  they  were. 

She  still  was  living  when  the  page  set  out 

From  home,  but  whether  now  was  left  in  doubt. 

Poor  JULIA  !  saw  he  then  thy  death's  relief  — 

Stunned  into  stupor  more  than  wrung  with  grief? 

It  was  not  strange ;  for  in  the  human  breast 

Two  master-passions  cannot  coexist, 

And  that  alarm  which  now  usurped  his  brain 

Shut  out  not  only  peace,  but  other  pain. 

'Twas  fancying  CONSTANCE  underneath  the  shroud 

That  covered  JULIA  made  him  first  weep  loud, 

And  tear  himself  away  from  them  that  wept. 

Fast  hurrying  homeward,  night  nor  day  he  slept, 

Till,  launched  at  sea,  he  dreamed  that  his  soul's  saint 

Clung  to  him  on  a  bridge  of  ice,  pale,  faint, 

O'er  cataracts  of  blood.     Awake,  he  blessed 

The  shore;  nor  hope  left  utterly  his  breast, 

Till  reaching  home,  terrific  omen  !  there 

The  straw-laid  street  preluded  his  despair  — 

The  servant's  look  —  the  table  that  revealed 

His  letter  sent  to  CONSTANCE  last,  still  sealed  — 

Though  speech  and  hearing  left  him,  told  too  clear 

That  he  had  now  to  suffer  —  not  to  fear. 

He  felt  as  if  he  ne'er  should  cease  to  feel  — 

A  wretch  live-broken  on  misfortune's  wheel : 


124  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

Her    death's    cause  —  he    might    make    his    peace    with 

Heaven, 
Absolved  from  guilt  but  never  self-forgiven. 

"The  ocean  has  its  ebbings  —  so  has  grief; 

'Twas  vent  to  anguish,  if  'twas  not  relief, 

To  lay  his  brow  ev'n  on  her  death-cold  cheek. 

Then  first  he  heard  her  one  kind  sister  speak: 

She  bade  him,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  forbear 

With  self-reproach  to  deepen  his  despair: 

« 'Twas  blame,'  she  said,  « I  shudder  to  relate, 

But  none  of  yours,  that  caused  our  darling's  fate ; 

Her  mother  (must  I  call  her  such?)  foresaw, 

Should  CONSTANCE  leave  the  land,  she  would  withdraw 

Our  House's  charm  against  the  world's  neglect  — 

The  only  gem  that  drew  it  some  respect. 

Hence,  when  you  went,  she  came  and  vainly  spoke 

To  change  her  purpose  —  grew  incensed,  and  broke 

With  execrations  from  her  kneeling  child. 

Start  not !   your  angel  from  her  knee  rose  mild, 

Feared  that  she  should  not  long  the  scene  outlive, 

Yet  bade  even  you  the  unnatural  one  forgive. 

Till  then  her  ailment  had  been  slight,  or  none ; 

But  fast  she  drooped,  and  fatal  pains  came  on : 

Foreseeing  their  event,  she  dictated 

And  signed  these  words  for  you.'     The  letter  said  — 

"  '  THEODRIC,  this  is  destiny  above 

Our  power  to  baffle ;   bear  it  then,  my  love  ! 

Rave  not  to  learn  the  usage  I  have  borne, 

For  one  true  sister  left  me  not  forlorn; 

And  though  you're  absent  in  another  land, 

Sent  from  me  by  my  own  well-meant  command, 

Your  soul,  I  know,  as  firm  is  knit  to  mine 

As  these  clasped  hands  in  blessing  you  now  join. 

Shape  not  imagined  horrors  in  my  fate  — 

Even  now  my  sufferings  are  not  very  great 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  125 

And  when  your  grief's  first  transports  shall  subside, 

I  call  upon  your  strength  of  soul  and  pride 

To  pay  my  memory,  if  'tis  worth  the  debt, 

Love's  glorying  tribute  —  not  forlorn  regret : 

I  charge  my  name  with  power  to  conjure  up 

.Reflections  balmy,  not  its  bitter  cup. 

My  pardoning  angel,  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

Shall  look  not  more  regard  than  you  have  given 

To  me  ;    and  our  life's  union  has  been  clad 

In  smiles  of  bliss  as  sweet  as  life  e'er  had. 

Shall  gloom  be  from  such  bright  remembrance  cast? 

Shall  bitterness  outflow  from  sweetness  past? 

No !    imaged  in  the  sanctuary  of  your  breast, 

There  let  me  smile,  amidst  high  thoughts  at  rest; 

And  let  contentment  on  your  spirit  shine, 

As  if  its  peace  were  still  a  part  of  mine : 

For  if  you  war  not  proudly  with  your  pain, 

For  you  I  shall  have  worse  than  lived  in  vain. 

But  I  conjure  your  manliness  to  bear 

My  loss  with  noble  spirit  —  not  despair  : 

I  ask  you  by  our  love  to  promise  this, 

And  kiss  these  words,  where  I  have  left  a  kiss,  — 

The  latest  from  my  living  lips  for  yours.'  — 

"  Words  that  will  solace  him  while  life  endures : 
For  though  his  spirit  from  affliction's  surge 
Could  ne'er  to  life,  as  life  had  been,  emerge, 
Yet  still  that  mind  whose  harmony  elate 
Rang  sweetness,  even  beneath  the  crush  of  fate, — 
That  mind  in  whose  regard  all  things  were  placed 
In  views  that  softened  them,  or  lights  that  graced, 
That  soul's  example  could  not  but  dispense 
A  portion  of  its  own  blessed  influence ; 
Invoking  him  to  peace,  and  that  self- sway 
Which  Fortune  can  not  give,  nor  take  away : 
And  though  he  mourned  her  long,  'twas  with  such  wo 
As  if  her  spirit  watched  him  still  below." 
11* 


TRANSLATIONS. 

FRAGMENT. 

FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  ALCMAN. 

THE  mountain  summits  sleep  :    glens,  cliffs,  and  caves 
Are  silent  — all  the  black  earth's  reptile  brood  — 
The  bees  —  the  wild  beasts  of  the  mountain  wood : 

In  depths  beneath  the  dark  red  ocean's  waves 

Its  monsters  rest,  whilst  wrapt  in  bower  and  spray 
Each  bird  is  hushed  that  stretched  its  pinions  to  the  day, 


SONG    OP    HYBRIAS,    THE    CRETAN. 

MY  wealth's  a  burly  spear  and  brand, 
And  a  right  good  shield  of  hides  untanned, 

"Which  on  my  arm  I  buckle : 
"With  these  I  plough,  I  reap,  I  sow, 
"With  these  I  make  the  sweet  vintage  flow, 

And  all  around  me  truckle. 

But  your  wights  that  take  no  pride  to  wield 
A  massy  spear  and  well-made  shield, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  127 

Nor  joy  to  draw  the  sword : 
Oh,  I  bring  those  heartless,  hapless  drones, 
Down  in  a  trice  on  their  marrow-bones, 

To  call  me  King  and  Lord. 


MARTIAL    ELEGY. 

FROM    THE    GREEK.   OP   TYRT^US. 

How  glorious  fall  the  valiant,  sword  in  hand, 

In  front  of  battle  for  their  native  land  ! 

But  oh  !    what  ills  await  the  wretch  that  yields, 

A  recreant  outcast  from  his  country's  fields  ! 

The  mother  whom  he  loves  shall  quit  her  home, 

An  aged  father  at  his  side  shall  roam; 

His  little  ones  shall  weeping  with  him  go, 

And  a  young  wife  participate  his  woe ; 

While  scorned  and  scowled  upon  by  every  face, 

They  pine  for  food,  and  beg  from  place  to  place. 

Stain  of  his  breed  !    dishonoring  manhood's  form ! 
All  ills  shall  cleave  to  him :  —  affliction's  storm 
Shall  bind  him  wandering  in  the  vale  of  years, 
Till,  lost  to  all  but  ignominious  fears, 
He  shall  not  blush  to  leave  a  recreant's  name, 
And  children,,  like  himself,  innured  to  shame. 

But  we  will  combat  for  our  fathers'  land, 
And  we  will  drain  the  life-blood  where  we  stand, 
To  save  our  children :  —  fight  ye  side  by  side, 
And  serried  close,  ye  men  of  youthful  pride, 
Disdaining  fear,  and  deeming  light  the  cost 
Of  life  itself  in  glorious  battle  lost. 


128  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Leave  not  our  sires  to  stem  the  unequal  fight, 
Whose  limbs  are  nerved  no  more  \vith  buoyant  might 
Nor,  lagging  backward,  let  the  yo.unger  breast 
Permit  the  man  of  age,  (a  sight  unblessed,) 
To  welter  in  the  combat's  foremost  thrust, 
His  hoary  head  dishevelled  in  the  dust, 
And  venerable  bosom  bleeding  bare. 

But  youth's  fair  form,  though  fallen,  is  ever  fair, 
And  beautiful  in  death  the  boy  appears, 
The  hero    boy  that  dies  in  blooming  years : 
In  man's  regret  he  lives,  and  woman's  tears, 
More  sacred  than  in  life,  and  lovelier  far, 
For  having  perished  in  the  front  of  war. 


SPECIMENS  OF  TRANSLATION    FROM    MEDEA, 

Hxaiovs  <5c  fay&v,  Kovdiv  TI  aocpovs 
Tov$  rrpoffOe  j3porov$  OVK  av  a/xaproif. 

Medea,  v.  194,  p.  33,  Glasg-.  edit. 

TELL  me,  ye  bards,  whose  skill  sublime 
First  charmed  the  ear  of  youthful  Time, 
With  numbers  wrapt  in  heavenly  fire, 
Who  bade  delighted  Echo  swell 
The  trembling  transports  of  the  lyre, 
The  murmur  of  the  shell  — 
"Why  to  the  burst  of  Joy  alone 
Accords  sweet  Music's  soothing  tone? 
Why  can  no  bard,  with  magic  strain, 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain  ? 
While  varied  tones  obey  your  sweep, 
The  mild,  the  plaintive,  and  the  deep, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  129 

Bends  not  despairing  Grief  to  hear 
Your  golden  lute,  with  ravished  ear  ? 
Has  all  your  art  no  power  to  bind 
The  fiercer  pangs  that  shake  the  mind, 
And  lull  the  wrath  at  whose  command 
Murder  bares  her  gory  hand? 
When  flushed  with  joy,  the  rosy  throng 
Weave  the  light  dance,  ye  swell  the  song ! 
Cease,  ye  vain  warblers !   cease  to  charm 
The  breast  with  other  raptures  warm ! 
Cease!   till  your  hand  with  magic  strain 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain ! 


SPEECH  OF  THE  CHORUS, 

IN   THE    SAME    TRAGEDY, 

TO  DISSUADE  MEDEA  FROM  HER  PURPOSE  OP  PUTTING  HER 
CHILDREN  TO  DEATH,  AND  PLYING  FOR  PROTECTION  TO 
ATHENS. 

O  HAGGARD  queen !   to  Athens  dost  thou  guide 
Thy  glowing  chariot,  steeped  in  kindred  gore : 

Or  seek  to  hide  thy  foul  infanticide 
Where  Peace  and  Mercy  dwell  for  evermore  ? 

The  land  where  Truth,  pure,  precious,  and  sublime, 
Wooes  the  deep  silence  of  sequestered  bowers, 

And  warriors,  matchless  since  the  first  of  time, 
Rear  their  bright  banners  o'er  unconquered  towers ! 

Where  joyous  youth,  to  Music's  mellow  strain, 
Twines  in  the  dance  with  nymphs  forever  fair, 

*Vhile  Spring  eternal  on  the  lilied  plain, 
Waves  amber  radiance  through  the  fields  of  air ! 


130  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

The  tuneful  Nine  (so  sacred  legends  tell) 

First  waked  their  heavenly  lyre  these  scenes  among; 

Still  in  your  greenwood  bowers  they  love  to  dwell; 
Still  in  your  vales  they  swell  the  choral  song ! 

But  there  the  tuneful,  chaste  Pierian  fair, 

The  guardian  nymphs  of  green  Parnassus,  now 

Sprung  from  Harmonia,  while  her  graceful  hair 
Waved  in  high  auburn  o'er  her  polished  brow  ! 

ANTISTROfHE   I. 

Where  silent  vales,  and  glades  of  green  array, 
The  murmuring  wreaths  of  cool  Cephisus  lave, 

There,  as  the  muse  hath  sung,  at  noon  of  day, 
The  queen  of  Beauty  bowed  to  taste  the  wave ; 

And  blest  the  stream,  and  breathed  across  the  land 
The  soft,  sweet  gale  that  fans  yon  summer  bowers; 

And  there  the  sister  Loves,  a  smiling  band, 

Crowned  with  the  fragrant  wreaths  of  rosy  flowers ! 

"  And  go,"  she  cries,  "  in  yonder  valleys  rove, 
With  Beauty's  torch  the  solemn  scenes  illume ; 

Wake  in  each  eye  the  radiant  light  of  Love, 

Breathe  on  its  cheek  young  Passion's  tender  bloom. 

"  Entwine,  with  myrtle  chains,  your  soft  control, 
To  sway  the  hearts  of  Freedom's  darling  kind  ! 

With  glowing  charms  enrapture  Wisdom's  soul, 
And  mould  to  grace  ethereal  Virtue's  mind." 

STROPHE    II. 

The  land  where  Heaven's  own  hallowed  waters  play, 
Where  friendship  binds  the  generous  and  the  good, 

Say,  shall  it  hail  thee  from  thy  frantic  way, 
Unholy  woman  !    with  thy  hands  embrued 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  131 

In  tliine  own  children's  gore  ?    Oh !   ere  they  bleed, 
Let  Nature's  voice  thy  ruthless  heart  appall ! 

Pause  at  the  bold,  irrevocable  deed  — 

The  mother  strikes  —  the  guiltless  babes  shall  fall ! 

Think  what  remorse  thy  maddening  thoughts  shall  sting, 
When  dying  pangs  their  gentle  bosoms  tear! 

Where  shalt  thou  sink,  when  lingering  echoes  ring 
The  screams  of  horror  in  thy  tortured  ear  ? 

No !  let  thy  bosom  melt  to  Pity's  cry, 

In  dust  we  kneel — by  sacred  Heav'n  implore  — 

O  !  stop  thy  lifted  arm,  ere  yet  they  die, 
Nor  dip  thy  horrid  hands  in  infant  gore! 


A.NTISTROPHE   II. 

Say,  now  shalt  thou  that  barbarous  soul  assume, 
Undamped  by  horror  at  the  daring  plan? 

Hast  thou  a  heart  to  work  thy  children's  doom  ? 
Or  hands  to  finish  what  thy  wrath  began  ? 

When  o'er  each  babe  you  look  a  last  adieu, 
And  gaze  on  Innocence  that  smiles  asleep, 

Shall  no  fond  feeling  beat  to  Nature  true, 

Charm  thee  to  pensive  thought  — and  bid  thee  weep? 

When  the  young  suppliants  clasp  their  parent  dear, 
Heave  the  deep  sob,  and  pour  the  artless  prayer,  — 

Ay !   thou  shalt  melt ;  —  and  many  a  heart-shed  tear 
Gush  o'er  the  hardened  features  of  despair ! 

Nature  shall  throb  in  every  tender  string, — 
Thy  trembling  heart  the  ruffian's  task  deny ;  — 

Thy  horror-smitten  hands  afar  shall  fling 

The  blade,  undrenched  in  blood's  eternal  dye. 


132  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 


Hallowed  Earth  !   with  indignation 
Mark,  oh  mark,  the  murderous  deed! 

Radiant  eye  of  wide  creation, 
Watch  the  accursed  infanticide  ! 

Yet,  ere  Colchia's  rugged  daughter 

Perpetrate  the  dure  design, 
A.nd  consign  to  kindred  slaughter 

Children  of  thy  golden  line  ! 

• 
Shall  mortal  hand,  with  murder  gory, 

Cause  immortal  blood  to  flow? 
Sun  of  Heaven  !  —  arrayed  in  glory 

Rise,  forbid,  avert  the  blow ! 

In  the  vales  of  placid  gladness 
Let  no  rueful  maniac  range ; 

Chase  afar  the  fiend  of  Madness, 
Wrest  the  dagger  from  Revenge ! 

Say,  hast  thou,  with  kind  protection, 
Reared  thy  smiling  race  in  vain; 

Fostering  Nature's  fond  affection, 
Tender  cares,  and  pleasing  pain? 

Hast  thou,  on  the  troubled  ocean, 
Braved  the  tempest  loud  and  strong, 

Where  the  waves,  in  wild  commotion. 
Roar  Cyanean  rocks  among? 

Didst  thou  roam  the  paths  of  danger, 

Hymenean  joys  to  prove  ? 
Spare,  O  sanguinary  stranger, 

Pledges  of  thy  sacred  love ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  133 

Ask  not  Heaven's  commiseration. 

After  thou  hast  done  the  deed! 
Mercy,  pardon,  expiation, 

Perish  when  thy  victims  bleed. 
12 


O'CONNOR'S    CHILD; 

OR,  "THE    FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING." 


OH  !   once  the  harp  of  Innisfail 

Was  strung  full  high  to  notes  of  gladness; 

But  yet  it  often  told  a  tale 

Of  more  prevailing  sadness. 

Sad  was  the  note,  and  wild  its  fall, 

As  winds  that  moan  at  night  forlorn 

Along  the  isles  of  Fion-Gall, 

When,  for  O'Connor's  child  to  mourn, 

The  harper  told,  how  lone,  how  far 

From  any  mansion's  twinkling  star, 

From  any  path  of  social  men, 

Or  voice,  but  from  the  fox's  den, 

The  lady  in  the  desert  dwelt; 

And  yet  no  wrongs,  no  fear  she  felt; 

Say,  why  should  dwell,  in  place  so  wild, 

O'Connor's  pale  and  lovely  child? 

ii. 

Sweet  lady !   she  no  more  inspires 
Green  Erin's  hearts  with  beauty's  power, 
As,  in  the  palace  of  her  sires, 
She  bloomed  a  peerless  flower. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  135 

Gone  from  her  hand  and  bosom,  gone, 
The  royal  brooch,  the  jewelled  ring, 
That  o'er  her  dazzling  whiteness  shone, 
Like  dews  on  lilies  of  the  spring. 
Yet  why,  though  fall'n  her  brother's  kerne, 
Beneath  De  Bourgo's  battle  stern, 
While  yet  in  Leinster  unexplored, 
Her  friends  survive  the  English  sword ; 
Why  lingers  she  from  Erin's  host, 
So  far  on  Galway's  shipwrecked  coast; 
Why  wanders  she  a  huntress  wild  — 
O'Connor's  pale  and  lovely  child? 

in. 

And  fixed  on  empty  space,  why  burn 

Her  eyes  with  momentary  wildness ; 

And  wherefore  do  they  then  return 

To  more  than  woman's  mildness  ? 

Dishevelled  are  her  raven  locks  ; 

On  Connocht  Moran's  name  she  calls ; 

And  oft  amidst  the  lonely  rocks 

She  sings  sweet  madrigals. 

Placed  'midst  the  fox-glove  and  the  moss, 

Behold  a  parted  warrior's  cross  ! 

That  is  the  spot  where,  evermore, 

The  lady,  at  her  shieling  door, 

Enjoys  that,  in  communion  sweet, 

The  living  and  the  dead  can  meet, 

For,  lo !   to  love-lorn  fantasy, 

The  hero  of  her  heart  is  nigh. 


Bright  as  the  bow  that  spans  the  storm, 
In  Erin's  yellow  vesture  clad, 
A  son  of  light  —  a  lovely  form, 
He  comes  and  makes  her  glad ; 


136  CAMPBELL'S 

Now  on  the  grass- green  turf  he  sits, 

His  tasselled  horn  beside  him  laid; 

Now  o'er  the  hills  in  chase  he  flits, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade  ! 

Sweet  mourner !   these  are  shadows  vain 

That  cross  the  twilight  of  her  brain ; 

Yet  she  will  tell  you,  she  is  blest, 

Of  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  possessed, 

More  richly  than  in  Aghrim's  bower, 

When  bards  high  praised  her  beauty's  power, 

And  kneeling  pages  offered  up 

The  morat  in  a    olden  cup. 


11  A  hero's  bride  !    this  desert  bower, 

It  ill  befits  thy  gentle  breeding : 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  love  this  flower 

To  call  —  «  My  love  lies  bleeding  r '  " 

"This  purple  flower  my  tears  have  nursed; 

A  hero's  blood  supplied  its  bloom : 

I  love  it,  for  it  was  the  first 

That  grew  on  Connocht  Moran's  tomb. 

Oh  !  hearken,  stranger,  to  my  voice  ! 

This  desert  mansion  is  my  choice ! 

And  blest,  though  fatal,  be  the  star 

That  led  me  to  its  wilds  afar ; 

For  here  these  pathless  mountains  free 

Gave  shelter  to  my  love  and  me ; 

And  every  rock  and  every  stone 

Bore  witness  that  he  was  my  own. 


"  O'Connor's  child,  I  was  the  bud 
Of  Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory ; 


137 


But  wo  to  them  that  wrapt  in  blood 
The  tissue  of  my  story ! 
Still  as  I  clasp  my  burning  brain, 
A  death- scene  rushes  on  my  sight ; 
It  rises  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
The  bloody  feud  —  the  fatal  night, 
When  chafing  Connocht  Moran's  scorn, 
They  called  my  hero  basely  bom ; 
And  bade  him  choose  a  meaner  bride 
Than  from  O'Connor's  house  of  pride. 
Their  tribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree, 
Was  sung  in  Tara's  psaltery ; 
Witness  their  Eath's  victorious  brand, 
And  Cathal  of  the  bloody  hand ; 
Glory,  they  said,  and  power,  and  honor, 
Were  in  the  mansion  of  O'Connor; 
But  he,  my  loved  one,  bore  in  field 
A  humbler  crest,  a  meaner  shield. 


"  Ah,  brothers  !    what  did  it  avail, 
That  fiercely  and  triumphantly 
Ye  fought  the  English  of  the  pale, 
And  stemmed  De  Bourgo's  chivalry? 
And  what  was  it  to  love  and  me, 
That  barons  by  your  standard  rode ; 
Or  beal-fires  for  your  jubilee 
Upon  a  hundred  mountains  glowed? 
What  though  the  lords  of  tower  and  dome 
From  Shannon  to  the  North-sea  foam, — 
Thought  ye  your  iron  hands  of  pride 
Could  break  the  knot  that  love  had  tied  ? 
No  !  —  let  the  eagle  change  his  plume, 
The  leaf  its  hue,  the  flower  its  bloom ; 
But  ties  around  this  heart  were  spun, 
That  could  not,  would  not,  be  undone! 
12* 


138 


VIII. 

"At  bleating  of  the  wild  watch-fold, 
Thus  sang  my  love  —  '  Oh,  come  with  me : 
Our  bark  is  on  the  lake,  —  behold, 
Our  steeds  are  fasten&l  to  the  tree. 
Come  far  from  Castle- Connor's  chins ; 
Come  with  thy  belted  forestere, 
And  I,  beside  the  lake  of  swans, 
Shall  hunt  for  thee  the  fallow-deer; 
And  build  thy  hut,  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild-fowl  and  the  honey-comb; 
And  berries  from  the  wood  provide, 
And  play  my  clarshech  by  thy  side. 
Then  come,  my  love ! '  —  How  could  I  stay  ? 
Our  rumble  stag-hounds  tracked  the  way, 
And  I  pursued,  by  moonless  skies, 
The  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes. 


"And  fast  and  far,  before  the  star 

Of  day-spring,  rushed  we  through  the  glade, 

And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  bawn 

Of  Castle-Connor  fade. 

Sweet  was  to  us  the  hermitage 

Of  this  unploughed,  untrodden  shore  ; 

Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage, 

For  man's  neglect  we  loved  it  more ; 

And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 

To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear; 

While  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress, 

Would  sing  to  him  in  happiness. 

But,  oh,  that  midnight  of  despair ! 

When  I  was  doomed  to  rend  my  hair: 

The  night,  to  me,  of  shrieking  sorrow  I 

The  night,  to  him,  that  had  no  morrow! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  139 


**  When  all  was  hushed,  at  even  tide, 

I  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle  : 

Be  hushed !  my  Connocht  Moran  cried, 

Tis  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle. 

Alas  !    'twas  not  the  eyrie's  sound ; 

Their  bloody  bands  had  tracked  us  out ; 

Up-listening  starts  our  couchant  hand  — 

And,  hark  !    again,  that  nearer  shout 

Brings  faster  on  the  murderers. 

Spare  —  spare  him  —  Brazil  —  Desmond  fierce 

In  vain  —  no  voice  the  adder  charms; 

Their  weapons  crossed  my  sheltering  arms. 

Another's  sword  has  laid  him  low  -  - 

Another's  and  another's ; 

And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow  — 

Ah  me !   it  was  a  brother's  ! 

Yes,  when  his  meanings  died  away, 

Their  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 

And  o'er  his  burial  turf  they  trod, 

And  I  beheld— oh  God!    oh  God!  — 

His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod ! 


"  Warm  in  his  death-wounds  sepulchred, 
Alas !   my  warrior's  spirit  brave 
Nor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla  heard, 
Lamenting,  sooth  his  grave. 
Dragged  to  their  hated  mansion  back, 
How  long  in  thraldom's  grasp  I  lay 
I  knew  not,  for  my  soul  was  black, 
And  knew  no  change  of  night  or  day. 
One  night  of  horror  round  me  grew ; 
Or  if  I  saw,  or  felt,  or  knew, 
'Twas  but  when  those  grim  visages, 
The  angry  brothers  of  my  race, 


140  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Glared  on  each  eye-ball's  aching  throb, 
And  checked  my  bosom's  power  to  sob, 
Or  when  my  heart  with  pulses  drear 
Beat  like  a  death-watch  to  my  ear. 


"But  Heaven,  at  last,  my  soul's  eclipse 
Did  with  a  vision  bright  inspire ; 
I  woke,  and  felt  upon  my  lips 
A  prophetess's  fire. 
Thrice  in  the  east  a  war- drum  beat, 
I  heard  the  Saxon's  trumpet  sound, 
And  ranged,  as  to  the  judgment- seat, 
My  guil*y,  trembling  brothers  round. 
Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came ; 
For  now  De  Bourgo's  sword  and  flame 
Had  ravaged  Ulster's  boundaries, 
And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 
The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 
"Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay ; 
That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look, 
As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 
I  gave,  —  that  every  bosom  shook 
Beneath  its  iron  mail. 


"  And  go !  (I  cried)  the  combat  seek, 
Ye  hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek, 
Go  !  —  and  return  no  more 
For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 
Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 
The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 
Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unrolled. 
O  stranger !    by  my  country's  loss  ! 
And  by  my  love  !   and  by  the  cross  ! 


S     POEMS.  141 


I  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  severed  nature's  yoke ; 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood, 
And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  given, 
To  speak  the  malison  of  heaven. 


"  They  would  have  crossed  themselves,  all  mute ; 

They  would  have  prayed  to  burst  the  spell; 

But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot 

Each  hand  down  powerless  fell ! 

And  go  to  Athunree  !    (I  cried) 

High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride  ! 

But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls, 

The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls  ! 

Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 

Shall  float  as  high  as  mountain  fern ! 

Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know; 

The  nettles  on  your  hearth  shall  grow ! 

Dead,  as  the  green  oblivious  flood 

That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 

The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blood  ! 

Away  !    away  to  Athunree  ! 

Where,  downward  when  the  sun  shall  fall. 

The  raven's  wing  shall  be  your  pall! 

And  not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 

The  visor  from  your  dying  face  ! 

xv. 

"A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome 
Suspended  till  my  curse  was  given, 
Soon  as  it  passed  these  lips  of  foam, 
Pealed  in  the  blood-red  heaven. 
Dire  was  the  look  that  o'er  their  backs 
The  angry  parting  brothers  threw : 


142  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

But  now,  behold !   like  cataracts, 
Come  down  the  hills  in  view 
O'Connor's  plumed  partisans ; 
Thrice  ten  Kilnagorvian  clans 
Were  marching  to  their  doom: 
A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  tossed, 
A  flash  of  lightning  o'er  them  crossed, 
And  all  again  was  gloom  ! 


"  Stranger  !   I  fled  the  home  of  grief, 
At  Connocht  Moron's  tomb  to  fall ; 
I  found  the  helmet  of  my  chief, 
His  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wall, 
And  took  it  down,  and  vowed  to  rove 
This  desert  place  a  huntress  bold; 
Nor  would  I  change  my  buried  love 
For  any  heart  of  living  mould. 
No  !   for  I  am  a  hero's  child : 
I'll  hunt  my  quarry  in  the  wild  ; 
And  still  my  home  this  mansion  make, 
Of  all  unheeded  and  unheeding, 
And  cherish,  for  my  warrior's  sake  — 
•  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding/  " 


CAMPBELL    S     POEMS.  143 


LOCHLEL'S   WARNING. 

WIZARD. LOCHIEL. 

WIZARD. 

LOCHIEL,  Lochiel !   beware  of  the  day 
When  the  LoAvlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  ofCulloden  are  scattered  in  fight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown; 
Wo,  wo  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark !    through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far?  ' 

'Tis  thine,  oh  Glenullin !    whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love -lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  :   no  rider  is  there ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair^ 
Weep,  Albin  !    to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
Oh  weep !    but  thy  tears  can  not  number  the  dead : 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave,  — 
Culloden !    that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 


Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer ! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight, 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 


Ha  !   laugh' at  thou,  Lochiel,  my  visioA  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn  I 


144 


S.ay,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth, 

From  his  home,  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of  the  north  ? 

Lo  !   the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 

Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad; 

But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high  ! 

Ah  !    home  let  him  speed,  —  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 

Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?     "Why  shoot  to  the  blast 

Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast? 

'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 

From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 

Oh,  crested  Lochiel !    the  peerless  in  might, 

Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 

Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn ; 

Return  to  thy  dwelling  !    all  lonely  return  ! 

For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 

And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood. 

LOCHIEL. 

False  Wizard,  avaunt !   I  have  marshalled  my  clan, 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to ,  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock  ! 
But  wo  to  his  kindred,  and  wo  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanronald.  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  •nlumed  in  their  tartan  array— » — 


Lochiel,  Lochiel !   beware  of  the  day ; 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  ]45 

I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 

"With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 

Lo  !    anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath, 

Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 

Now  in  darkness  and  billows,  he  sweeps  from  my  sight : 

Rise,  rise  !   ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 

Tis  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the  moors  ; 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores  : 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?  —  where  ? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  octan-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 

lake  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn? 

Ah  no  !    for  a  darker  departure  is  near ; 

The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier; 

His  death-bell  is  tolling :   oh  !  mercy,  dispel 

Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 

And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 

Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  era  it  ceases  to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale 

LOCHLEL. 

Down,  soothless  insulter  !    I  trust  not  the  tale : 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 

So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 

Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in  their 

gore, 

Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe ! 
And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame. 
13 


146  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 


OF  Nelson  and  the  North, 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown 

When  to  battle  fierce  can^  forth 

All  the  might  of"  ^Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the-Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on.  — 


Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line: 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime: 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a  time.  — 

in, 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

"  Hearts  of  oak  !  "  our  captains  cried,  when  each 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  147 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun.— 

IV. 

Again !   again !   again ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back : 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom; 

Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  tfie  shattered  sail; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom.  — 


Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave; 

"  Ye  are  brothers  !   ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save :  — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring ; 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King."  — 

VI. 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day, 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away.  — 


148  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 


Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
Whilst  the  wine- cup  shines  in  light; 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore  !  — 


Brave  hearts !   to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant,  good  Kiou :  * 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o'er  their  grave! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave  !  — 


*  Captain  Riou,  justly  entitled  the  gallant  and  the  good,  by  Lord  N«l- 
•on,  when  he  wrote  home  his  dispatches. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  149 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND: 

A  NAVAL   ODE. 


YE  Mariners  of  England  ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  !  — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

in. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 
No  towers  along  the  steep ; 
13* 


150  CAMPBELLS     POEMS 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
"With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 
She  quells  the  floods  below, — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 
"When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


HOHENLINDEN.  . 

ON  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  151 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser  rolling  rapidly., 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 


Few,  few  shall  part  where  many 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


152  CAMPBELL    S     POEMS. 


GLENAEA. 

O  HEARD  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale, 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weeping  and  wail  ? 
Tis  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  dear ; 
And  her  sire,  and  the  people,  are  called  to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shroud ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  followed,  but  mouined  not  aloud: 
Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  folded  around : 
They  marched  all  in  silence  —  They  looked  on  the  ground. 

In  silence  they  reached  over  mountain  and  moor, 
To  a  heath,  where  the  oak-tree  grew  lonely  and  hoar : 
"  Now  here  let  us  place  the  gray  stone  of  her  cairn : 
Why  speak  ye  no  word?"  —  said  Glenara  the  stern. 

"  And  tell  me,  I  charge  you !  ye  clan  of  my  spouse, 
Why  fold  ye  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye  your  brows  ? " 
So  spake  the  rude  chieftain :  —  no  answer  is  made, 
But  eaqjji  mantle  unfolding  a  dagger  displayed. 

"  I  dreamed  of  my  lady,  I  dreamed  of  her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and  loud ; 
"  And  empty  that  shroud,  and  that  coffin  did  seem : 
Glenara !  Glenara  !  now  read  me  my  dream  !  " 

O !  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween, 
When  the  shroud  was  unclosed,  and  no  lady  was  seen 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  louder  in  scorn, 
'Twas  the  youth  who  had  loved  the  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn  *, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  153 

"I  dreamed  of  my  lady,  I  dreamed  of  her  grief, 
1  dreamed  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief: 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem ; 
Glenara  !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream  !  " 

In  dust,  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground, 
And  the  desert  revealed  where  his  lady  was  found; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne  — 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn ! 


EXILE  OP  ERIN. 

THERE  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin, 
The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill": 

For  his  country  he  sighed,  when  at  twilight  repairing 
To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  oceffo? 

Where  once  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion* 
He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh* ! 

Sad  is  my  fate  !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger ; 

The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee, 
But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 

A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 
Never  again,  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 
"Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the  sweet  hours, 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowers, 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh ! 

Erin,  my  country  !  though  sad  and  forsaken, 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore; 


j    i  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

But,  alas  !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh,  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more ! 
Oh  cruel  fate  !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 
la  a  mansion  of  peace  —  where  no  perils  can  chase  me  I 
Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ? 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore  ! 

Where  is  my  cabin- door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood? 

Sisters  and  sire  !  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on  my  childhood  ? 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend,  dearer  than  all  ? 
Oh  !  my  sad  heart !  long  abandoned  by  pleasure, 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure  ? 
Tears,  like  the  rain  drop,  may  fall  without  measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  can  not  recall. 

Yet  all  its  sad  recollection  suppressing, 

One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw : 

Erin !  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  this  blessing  ! 
Land  of  my  forefathers !  Erin  go  bragh ! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields, — sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  devotion,- 
Erin  nlavournin  —  Erin  go  bragh  !  * 


LORD  ULLINS  DAUGHTER. 

A  CHIEFTAIN,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry."  — 

*  Ireland  my  darling — Ireland  for  ever. 


S      POEMS. 

"Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  daxk  and  stormy  water?" 

"  O,  I'm  the  chief  of  TJlva's  isle, 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. — 

"And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together, 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ? "  — 

Outspoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"I'll  go,  my  chief— I'm  ready:  — 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright ; 
But  for  your  winsome  lady: 

"  And  by  my  word !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry ; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry."  — 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water- wraith  was  shrieking ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer.  — 

"  O  haste  thee,  haste  ! "  the  lady  cries, 
Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 


155 


156  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father."  — 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her, — 
When,  oh !  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. — 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore ; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover :  — 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back !  come  back !  "  he  cried  in  grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water  : 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter  !  —  oh  my  daughter  ! ' 

'Twas  vain :  the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing :  — 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child. 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  157 


ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS. 

SOUL  of  the  Poet !  wheresoe'er, 

Reclaimed  from  earth,  thy  genius  plume 

Her  wings  of  immortality  : 

Suspend  thy  harp  in  happier  sphere, 

And  -with  thine  influence  illume 

The  gladness  of  our  jubilee. 

And  fly  like  fiends  from  secret  spell, 
Discord  and  Strife,  at  BURNS'S  name, 
Exorcised  by  his  memory ; 
For  he  was  chief  of  bards  that  swell 
The  heart  with  songs  of  social  flame, 
And  high  delicious  revelry. 

And  Love's  own  strain  to  him  was  given, 

To  warble  all  its  ecstacies 

With  Pythian  words  unsought,  unwilled  — 

Love,  the  surviving  gift  of  Heaven, 

The  choicest  sweet  of  Paradise, 

In  life's  else  bitter  cup  distilled. 

Who,  that  has  melted  o'er  his  lay 
To  Mary's  soul,  in  Heaven  above, 
But  pictured  sees,  in  fancy  strong, 
The  landscape  and  the  livelong  day 
That  smiled  upon  their  mutual  love  ?  — 
Who  that  has  felt  forgets  the  song  ? 

Nor  skilled  one  flame  alone  to  fan : 
His  country's  high-souled  peasantry 
What  patriot-pride  he  taught !  —  how  much 
14 


158  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

To  weigh  the  inborn  worth  of  man  ! 
Ani  rustic  life  and  poverty 
Grow  beautiful  beneath  his  touch. 

Him,  in  his  clay-built  cot,  the  muse 
Entranced,  and  showed  him  all  the  forms, 
Of  fairy-light  and  wizard  gloom, 
(That  only  gifted  Poet  views,) 
The  Genii  of  the  floods  and  storms, 
And  martial  shades  from  Glory's  tomb. 

On  Bannock-field  what  thoughts  arouse 

The  swain  whom  BURNS'S  song  inspires  ! 

Beat  not  his  Caledonian  veins, 

As  o'er  the  heroic  turf  he  ploughs, 

With  all  the  spirit  of  his  sires, 

And  all  their  scorn  of  death  and  chains  ? 

And  see  the  Scottish  exile  tanned 

By  many  a  far  and  foreign  clime, 

Bend  o'er  his  home -born  verse,  and  weep 

In  memory  of  his  native  land, 

"With  love  that  scorns  the  lapse  of  time, 

And  ties  that  stretch  beyond  the  deep. 

Encamped  by  Indian  rivers  wild, 

The  soldier  resting  on  his  arms, 

In  BURNS'S  carol  sweet  recalls 

The  scenes  that  blessed  him  when  a  child, 

And  glows  and  gladdens  at  the  charms 

Of  Scotia's  woods  and  water-falls. 

O  deem  not,  'midst  this  worldly  strife, 

An  idle  art  the  Poet  brings : 

Let  high  Philosophy  control, 

And  sages  calm,  the  stream  of  life, 

'Tis  he  refines  its  fountain-springs, 

The  nobler  passions  of  the  soul. 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  359 

It  is  the  muse  that  consecrates 
The  native  banner  of  the  brave, 
Unfurling,  at  the  trumpet's  breath, 
Rose,  thistle,  harp ;   'tis  she  elates 
To  sweep  the  field,  or  ride  the  wave, 
A  sun-burst  in  the  storm  of  death. 

And  thou,  young  hero,  when  thy  pall 

Is  crossed  with  mournful  sword  and  plume, 

When  public  grief  begins  to  fade, 

And  only  tears  of  kindred  fall, 

Wlo  but  the  Bard  shall  dress  thy  tomb, 

Arid  greet  with  fame  thy  gallant  shade  ? 

Such  was  the  soldier  —  BURNS,  forgive 

That  sorrows  of  mine  own  intrude 

In  strains  to  thy  great  memory  due. 

In  verse  like  thine,  oh !  could  he  live, 

The  friend  I  mourned  —  the  brave,  the  good  — 

Edward  that  died  at  Waterloo  !  * 

Farewell,  high  chief  of  Scottish  song  ! 
That  couldst  alternately  impart 
Wisdom  and  rapture  in  thy  page, 
And  brand  each  vice  with  satire  strong, 
Whose  lines  are  mottoes  of  the  heart, 
Whose  truths  electrify  the  sage. 

Farewell  !    and  ne'er  may  Envy  dare 
To  wring  one  baleful  poison  drop 
From  the  crushed  laurels  of  thy  bust : 
But  while  the  lark  sings  sweet  in  air, 
Still  may  the  grateful  pilgrim  stop, 
To  bless  the  spot  that  holds  thy  dust. 


*  Major  Edward  Hodge,  of  the  7th  Hussars,  who  fell  at  the  head  of 
his  squadron  in  the  attack  of  the  Polish  Lancers. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   ON   VISITING   A   SCENE   IN    AK.GYLE8HLRB. 

AT  ^  the  silen'ce  of  twilight's  contemplative  hour,  **— 
f  have  mused  in  a  sorrowful  mbooC     *~ 

bn  the  wind-siaken  weeds  that  embosom  the  bower,    ^ 
.  Where  the  home  of  my  forefathers  stood.    |^- 

All  ruined  aiicf  wild  is'  their  rSbfl^ss  'abode,    A. 
And  lonely  the  dark  ravjan's  ^sheltering  treej    <f 

And  travelled  by  few  is  the  grass-covered  road,  <2- 

Where  the  hunter  of  deer  and  the  warrior  trode,  <=~~ 
To  his  hills  that  encircle  the  sea.   4) 

Yet  wandering,  I  found  on  my  ruinous  walk, 

By  the  dial-stone  aged  and  green, 
One  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk, 

To  marK  where  a  garden  had  been. 
Like  a  brotherless  hermit,  the  last  of  its  race, 

All  wild  in  the  silence  of  nature,  it  drew, 
From  each  wandering  sun-beam,  a  lonely  embrace, 
For  the  night-weed  and  thorn  overshadowed  the  place, 

Where  the  flower  of  my  forefathers  grew. 

Sweet  bud  of  the  wilderness  !  emblem  of  all 

That  remains  in  this  desolate  heart ! 
The  fabric  of  bliss  to  its  centre  may  fall, 

But  patience  shall  never  depart ! 
Though  the  wilds  of  enchantment,  all  vernal  and  bright^ 

In  the  days  of  delusion  by  fancy  combined 
With  the  vanishing  phantoms  of  love  and  delight, 
Abandon  my  soul,  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

And  leave  but  a  desert  behind. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  161 

Be  hushed,  my  dark  spirit !   for  wisdom  condemns 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore ; 
Be  strong  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore ! 
Through  the  perils  of  chance,  and  the  scowl  of  disdain, 

May  thy  front  be  unaltered,  thy  courage  elate ! 
Yea !   even  the  name  I  have  worshipped  in  vain 
Shall  awake  not  the  sigh  of  remembrance  again : 

To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    DREAM. 

OUR  bugles  sang  truce  —  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain ; 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamed  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track : 

'Twas  Autumn,  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain- goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 
14* 


162  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud,  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us,  —  rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn; 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay :  — 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


TO    THE    RAINBOW. 

TRIUMPHAL  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part ! 

I  ask  not  proud  Philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art  — 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  Optics  teach,  unfold 

Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 
As  when  I  dreamed  of  gems  and  gold 

Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

When  Science  from  Creation's  face 

Enchantment's  veil  withdraws, 
What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
material  laws  ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  163 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams, 

But  words  of  the  Most  High, 
Have  told  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 

Was  woven  in  the  sky. 

When  o'er  the  green,  undeluged  earth 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 

How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 

The  first  made  anthem  rang 
On  earth  delivered  from  the  deep, 

And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 

Unraptured  greet  thy  beam: 
Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 

Be  still  the  prophet's  theme! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 

The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 
When  glittering  in  the  freshened  fields 

The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

• 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 

O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town, 
Or,  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 

A  thousand  fathoms  down ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 
As  young  thy  beauties  seem. 


164  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 

ALL  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  Immortality  ! 

I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 

That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time  ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould, 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime  ! 

The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan, 
The  skeletons  of  nations  wore 

Around  -that  ^lonely  man  ! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight,  —  the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands  ; 

In  plague  and  famine  some ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread ; 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb! 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  J65 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by, 
Saying,  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun, 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go. 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood  and  earth, 

The  vassals  of  his  will ;  — 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim  discrowned  king  of  day : 

For  all  these  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again. 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe  ; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 


166  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death  — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall,  — 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost ! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark; 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark  ! 
No  !   it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  captivity, 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  Victory,  — 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death  ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste  — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  Immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  167 


A  DREAM. 

WELL  may  sleep  present  us  fictions, 

Since  our  waking  moments  teem 
With  such  fanciful  convictions 

As  make  life  itself  a  dream. 

Half  our  daylight  faith's  a  fable ; 

Sleep  disports  with  shadows  too, 
Seeming  in  their  turn  as  stable 

As  the  world  we  wake  to  view 
Ne'er  by  day  did  Reason's  mint 
Give  my  thoughts  a  clearer  print 
Of  assured  reality, 
Than  was  left  by  Fantasy 
Stamped  and  colored  on  my  sprite, 
In  a  dream  of  yesternight. 

In  a  bark,  methought,  lone  steering, 

I  was  cast  on  Ocean's  strife; 
This,  'twas  whispered  in  my  hearing, 

Meant  the  sea  of  life. 
Sad  regrets  from  past  existence 

Came,  like  gales  of  chilling  breath ; 
Shadowed  in  the  forward  distance 

Lay  the  land  of  Death. 
Now  seeming  more,  now  less  remote, 
On  that  dim-seen  shore,  methought, 
I  beheld  two  hands  a  space 
Slow  unshroud  a  spectre's  face; 
And  my  flesh's  hair  upstood,  — 
'Twas  mine  own  similitude. 

But  my  soul  revived  at  seeing 
Ocean,  like  an  emerald  spark, 


168  CAMPBELLS     POEMS 

Kindle,  while  an  air-dropped  being 

Smiling  steered  my  bark. 
Heaven-like  —  yet  he  looked  as  human 

As  supernal  beauty  can, 
More  compassionate  than  woman, 

Lordly  more  than  man. 
And  as  some  sweet  clarion's  breath 
Stirs  the  soldier's  scorn  of  death  — 
So  his  accents  bade  me  brook 
The  spectre's  eyes  of  icy  look, 
Till  it  shut  them  —  turned  its  head, 
Like  a  beaten  foe,  and  fled. 

"  Types  not  this,"  I  said,  "  fair  spirit ! 

That  my  death-hour  is  not  come  ? 
Say,  what  days  shall  I  inherit  ?  — 

Tell  my  soul  their  sum." 
"No,"  he  said,  "yon  phantom's  aspect, 

Trust  me,  would  appall  thee  wor*. 
Held  in  clearly  measured  prospect :  — 

Ask  not  for  a  curse ! 
Make  not,  for  I  overhear 
Thine  unspoken  thoughts  as  clear 
As  thy  mortal  ear  could  catch 
The  close  brought  tickings  of  a  watch  - 
Make  not  the  untold  request 
That's  now  revolving  in  thy  breast. 

'Tis  to  live  again,  remeasuring 

Youth's  years,  like  a  scene  rehearsed, 
In  thy  second  lifetime  treasuring 

Knowledge  from  the  first. 
Hast  thou  felt,  poor  self- deceiver ! 

Life's  career  so  void  of  pain, 
As  to  wish  its  fitful  fever 

New  begun  again? 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  1G9 

Could  experience,  ten  times  thine, 
Pain  from  Being  disentwine  — 
Threads  by  Fate  together  spun? 
Could  thy  flight  Heaven's  lightning  shun  ? 
No,  nor  could  thy  foresight's  glance 
'Scape  the  myriad  shafts  of  Chance. 

Wouldst  thou  bear  again  Love's  trouble  — 

Friendship's  death-dissevered  ties ; 
Toil  to  grasp  or  miss  the  bubble 

Of  Ambition's  prize  ? 
Say  thy  life's  new  guided  action 

Flowed  from  Virtue's  fairest  springs  — 
Still  would  Envy  and  Detraction 

Double  not  their  stings  ? 
Worth  itself  is  but  a  charter 
To  be  mankind's  distinguished  martyr" 
—  I  caught  the  moral,  and  cried,  "  Hail ! 
Spirit !   let  us  onward  sail, 
Envying,  fearing,  hating  none  — 
Guardian  Spirit,  steer  me  onj  " 


VALEDICTORY    STANZAS, 

TO  J.  P.  KEMBLE,  ESQ. 

COMPOSED   FOB  A   PUBLIC   MEETING    HELD   JUNE,    1817. 

PRIDE  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu ! 
Whose  image  brought  th'  heroic  ag« 

Revived  to  Fancy's  view. 
U 


170 


Like  fields  refreshed  with  dewy  light 

When  the  sun  smiles  his  last, 
Thy  parting  presence  makes  more  bright 

Our  memory  of  the  past ; 
And  memory  conjures  feelings  up 

That  wine  or  music  need  not  swell, 
As  high  we  lift  the  festal  cup 

To  Kemble  —  fare  thee  well! 

His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  Acting  lends—   • 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  Arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends : 
For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting,  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come,  — 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb. 

Time  may  again  revive, 

But  ne'er  eclipse  the  charm, 
When  Cato  spoke  in  him  alive, 

Or  Hotspur  kindled  warm. 
What  soul  was  not  resigned  entire 

To  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  Moor? 
What  English  heart  was  not  on  fire 

With  him  at  Agincourt? 
And  yet  a  majesty  possessed 

His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone, 
And  to -each  passion  of  the  breast 

The  Graces  gave  their  zone. 

High  were  the  task — too  high, 
Ye  oonacioui  bosoms  her«  ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  171 

la.  words  to  paint  your  memory 

Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear ; 
But  who  forgets  that  white  discrowned  head, 

Those  bursts  of  Reason's  half- extinguished  glare, 
lliose  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed 
In  doubt  more  touching  than  despair, 
If  'twas  reality  he  felt  ? 

Had  Shakspeare's  self  amidst  you  been, 
Friends,  he  had  seen  you  melt, 
And  triumphed  to  have  seen  ! 


And  there  was  many  an  hour 

Of  blended,  kindred  fame, 
When  Siddons's  auxiliar  power 

And  sister  magic  came. 
Together  at  the  Muse's  side 

The  tragic  paragons  had  grown ; 
They  were  the  children  of  her  pride, 

The  columns  of  her  throne ; 
And  undivided  favor  ran 

From  heart  to  heart  in  their  applause, 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man 

In  lovelier  woman's  cause. 

Fair  as  some  classic  dome, 

Robust  and  richly  graced, 
Vour  KEMBLE'S  spirit  was  the  home 

Of  genius  and  of  taste; 
Taste  like  the  silent  dial's  power,     , 

That  when  supernal  light  is  given, 
Can  measure  inspiration's  hour, 

And  tell  its  height  in  heaven. 
At  once  ennobled  and  correct, 

His  mind  surveyed  the  tragic  page, 
And  what  the  actor  could 

The  scholar  could  presage 


172  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS 

These  were  his  traits  of  \vorth :  — 

And  must  we  lose  them  now  ? 
And  shall  the  scene  no  more  show  forth 

His  sternly  pleasing  brow: 
Alas,  the  moral  brings  a  tear !  — 

Tis  all  a  transient  hour  below ; 
And  we  that  would  detain  thee  here, 

Ourselves  as  fleetly  go  ! 
Yet  shall  our  latest  age 

This  parting  scene  review  :  — 
Pride  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu ! 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  THE  HIGHLAND  SOCIETY  IN 
LONDON,  WHEN  MET  TO  COMMEMORATE  THE  21ST  OF 
MARCH,  THE  DAY  OF  VICTORY  IN  EGYPT. 

PLEDGE  to  the  much-loved  land  that  gave  us  birth  ! 

Invincible  romantic  Scotia's  shore  ! 
Pledge  to  the  memory  of  her  parted  worth ! 

And  first,  amidst  the  brave,  remember  Moore  ! 

And  be  it  deemed  not  wrong  that  name  to  give, 
In  festive  hours,  which  prompts  the  patriot's  sigh  I 

Who  would  not  envy  such  as  Moore  to  live  ? 
And  died  he  not  as  heroes  wish  to  die  r 

Yes,  though  too  soon  attaining  glory's  goal, 
To  us  his  bright  career  too  short  was  given ; 

Yet  in  a  mighty  cause  his  phoenix  soul 
Rose  on  the  flames  of  victory  to  Heaven ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  173 

How  oft  (if  beats  in  subjugated  Spain 

One  patriot  heart)  in  secret  shall  it  mourn 

For  him  !  —  How  oft  on  far  Corunna's  plain 
Shall  British  exiles  weep  upon  his  urn ! 

Peace  to  the  mighty  dead ;  —  our  bosom  thanks 
In  sprightlier  strains  the  living  may  inspire  ! 

Joy  to  the  chiefs  that  led  old  Scotia's  ranks, 
Of  Roman  garb  and  more  than  Roman  fire  ! 

Triumphant  be  the  thistle  still  unfurled, 

Dear  symbol  wild !  on  Freedom's  hills  it  grows, 

Where  Fingal  stemmed  the  tyrants  of  the  world. 
And  Roman  eagles  found  unconquered  foes. 

Joy  to  the  band  *  this  day  on  Egypt's  coast, 
Whose  valor  tamed  proud  France's  tricolor, 

And  wrenched  the  banner  from  her  bravest  host, 
Baptized  Invincible  in  Austria's  gore  ! 

Joy  for  the  day  on  red  Vineira's  strand, 

When,  bayonet  to  bayonet  opposed, 
First  of  Britannia's  host  her  Highland  band 

Gave  but  the  death-shot  once,  and  foremost  closed  i 

Is  there  a  son  of  generous  England  here 
Or  fervid  Erin  ?  —  he  with  us  shall  join, 

To  pray  that  in  eternal  union  dear, 

The  rose,  the  shamrock,  and  the  thistle  twine ! 

Types  of  a  race  who  shall  th'  invader  scorn, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  round  their  shore ; 

Types  of  a  race  who  shall  to  time  unborn 
Their  country  leave  unconquered  as  of  yore  I 

*   The  42d  Regiment 
15* 


174  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 


STANZAS 

TO   THE    MEMORY   OP   THE    SPANISH    PATRIOTS    LATEST    KTT/HBQ 
IN  RESISTING  THE  REGENCY  AND  THE  DUKE  OF  ANGOULEME. 

BRAVE  men  who  at  the  Trocadero  fell  — 
Beside  your  cannons  conquered  not,  though  slain, 
There  is  a  victory  in  dying  well 
For  Freedom,  —  and  ye  have  not  died  in  vain ; 
For  come  what  may,  there  shall  be  hearts  in  Spain 
To  honor,  ay  embrace  your  martyred  lot, 
Cursing  the  Bigot's  and  the  Bourbon's  chain, 
And  looking  on  your  graves,  though  trophied  not, 
As  holier  hallowed  ground  than  priests  could  make  tha 
spot! 

What  though  your  case  be  baffled  —  freemen  cast 

In  dungeons  —  dragged  to  death,  or  forced  to  flee ; 

Hope  is  not  withered  in  affliction's  blast  — 

The  patriot's  blood  's  the  seed  of  Freedom's  tree ; 

And  short  your  orgies  of  revenge  shall  be, 

Cowled  demons  of  the  Inquisitorial  cell ! 

Earth  shudders  at  your  victory,  —  for  ye 

Are  worse  than  common  fiends  from  Heaven  that  fell, 

The  baser,  ranker  sprung,  Autochthones  of  Hell ! 

Go  to  your  bloody  rites  again  —  bring  back 

The  hall  of  horrors  and  the  assessor's  pen, 

Recording  answers  shrieked  upon  the  rack ; 

Smile  o'er  the  gaspings  of  spine-broken  men ;  — 

Preach,  perpetrate  damnation  in  your  den ;  — 

Then  let  your  altars,  ye  blasphemers  !  peal 

"With  thanks  to  Heaven,  that  let  you  loose  again, 

To  practise  deeds  with  torturing  fire  and  steel 

No  eye  may  search  —  no  tongue  may  challenge  or  reveal  I 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  175 

Yet  laugh  not  in  your  carnival  of  crime, 

Too  proudly,  ye  oppressors !  —  Spain  was  free, 

Her  soil  has  felt  the  foot-prints,  and  her  clime 

Been  winnowed  by  the  wings  of  Liberty ; 

And  these  even  parting  scatter  as  they  flee 

Thoughts  —  influences,  to  live  in  hearts  unborn, 

Opinions  that  shall  wrench  the  prison-key 

From  Persecution  —  show  her  mask  off-torn, 

And  tramp  her  bloated  head  beneath  the  foot  of  Scorn. 

Glory  to  them  that  die  in  this  great  cause ; 
Kings,  Bigots,  can  inflict  no  brand  of  shame, 
Or  shape  of  death,  to  shroud  them  from  applause  :  — 
No  !  —  manglers  of  the  martyr's  earthly  frame  ; 
Your  hangman  fingers  can  not  touch  his  fame. 
Still  in  your  prostrate  land  there  shall  be  some 
Proud  hearts,  the  shrines  of  Freedom's  vestal  flame. 
Long  trains  of  ill  may  pass  unheeded,  dumb, 
But  vengeance  is  behind,  and  justice  is  to  come. 


SONG   OF  THE    GREEKS. 

AGAIN  to  the  battle,  Achaians  ! 

Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance ; 

Our  land,  the  first  garden  of  Liberty's  tree  — 

It  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be,  the  land  of  the  free ; 

For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted, 

The  pale  dying  crescent  is  daunted, 

And  we  march  that  the  foot-prints  of  Mahomet's  slaves 

May  be  washed  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers'  grave* 

Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 

And  the  sword  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 


176  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS 

Ah !    what  though  no  succor  advances, 

Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous  lances 

Are  stretched  in  our  aid  —  be  the  combat  our  own ! 

And  we'll  perish   or   conquer    more    proudly  alone; 

For  we've  sworn  by  our  Country's  assaulters, 

By  the  virgins  they  dragged  from  our  altars, 

By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains, 

By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins. 

That,  living,  we  shall  be  victorious, 

Or  that,  dying,  our  deaths  shall  be  glorious. 

A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not ; 

The  sword  that  we've  drawn  we  wiH  sheath  not ! 

Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid, 

And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whetted  its  blade. 

Earth  may  hide  —  waves  ingulf — fire  consume  us, 

But  they  shall  not  to  slavery  doom  us  : 

If  they  rule,  it  shall  be  o'er  our  ashes  and  graves ; 

But  we've  smote  them  already  with  fire  on  the  waves, 

And  new  triumphs  on  land  are  before  us, 

To  the  charge  !  —  Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 

This  day  shall  ye  blush  for  its  story, 

Or  brighten  your  lives  with  its  glory. 

Our  women,  oh,  say,  shall  they  shriek  in  despair, 

Or  embrace  us  from  conquest  with  wreaths  in  their  hail  ? 

Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken, 

If  a  coward  there  be  that  would  slacken 

Till   we've   trampled   the   turban,    and    shown    ourselves 

worth 

Being  sprung  from  and  named  for  the  godlike  of  earth. 
Strike  home  and  the  world  shall  revere  us 
As  heroes  descended  from  heroes. 
Old  Greece  lightens  up  with  emotion 
Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  Ocean  ; 
Fanes  rebuilt  and  fair  towns  shall  with  jubilee  ring, 
And  the  Nine  shall  new-hallow  their  Helicon's  spring  i 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS  177 

Our  hearths  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness, 

That  were  cold  and  extinguished  in  sadness ; 

Whilst  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white-waving 

arms, 

Singing  joy  to  the  brave  that  delivered  their  charms, 
When  the  blood  of  yon  Mussulman  cravens, 
Shall  have  purpled  the  beaks  of  our  ravens. 


ODE    TO    WINTER. 

WHKX  first  the  fiery-mantled  sun 
His  heavenly  race  began  to  run ; 
Round  the  earth  and  ocean  blue 
His  children  four,  the  Seasons,  flew. 
First,  in  green  apparel  dancing, 

The  young  Spring  smiled  with  angel  grace ; 
Rosy  Summer  next  advancing, 

Rushed  into  her  sire's  embrace  — 
Her  bright-haired  sire,  who  bade  her  keep 

For  ever  nearest  to  his  smiles, 
On  Calpe's  olive-shaded  steep, 

On  India's  citron- covered  isles  > 
More  remote  and  buxom-brown, 

The  Queen  of  vintage  bowed  before  his  throne ; 
A  rich  pomegranate  gemmed  her  crown, 

A  ripe  sheaf  bound  her  zone. 
But  howling  Winter  fled  afar, 
To  hills  that  prop  the  polar  star, 
And  loves  on  deer-borne  car  to  ride 
With  barren  Darkness  by  his  side, 
Round  the  shore  where  loud  Lofoden 

Whirls  to  death  the  roaring  whale, 


178  CAMPBELL    8     POEMS. 

Round  the  hall  where  Runic  Odin 

Howls  his  war-song  to  the  gale  ; 
Save  when  adown  the  ravaged  globe 

He  travels  on  his  native  storm, 
Deflowering  Nature's  grassy  robe, 

And  trampling  on  her  faded  form  ; 
Till  light's  returning  lord  assume 

The  shaft  that  drives  him  to  his  polar 
Of  power  to  pierce  his  raven  plume 

And  crystal-  covered  shield. 
Oh,  sire  of  storms  !    whose  savage  ear 
The  Lapland  drum  delights  to  hear, 
When  Frenzy  with  her  blood-shot  eye 
Implores  thy  dreadful  deity, 
Archangel  !    power  of  desolation  ! 

Fast  descending  as  thou  art, 
Say,  hath  .mortal  invocation 

Spells  to  touch  thy  stony  heart  ? 
Then  sullen  "Winter,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  gently  rule  the  ruined  year  ; 
Nor  chill  the  wanderer's  bosom  bare, 
Nor  freeze  the  wretch's  falling  tear  : 
To  shuddering  Want's  unmantled  bed 
Thy  horror-breathing  agues  cease  to  lead, 
And  gently  on  the  orphan  head 
Of  innocence  descend.  — 


But  chiefly  spare,  O  king  of  clouds  ! 
The  sailor  on  his  airy  shrouds  ; 
When  wrecks  and  beacons  strew  the  steep, 
And  spectres  walk  along  the  deep. 
Milder  yet  thy  snowy  breezes 

Pour  on  yonder  tented  shores, 
Where  the  Rhine's  broad  billow  freezes, 

Or  the  dark-brown  Danube  roars. 
Oh,  winds  of  Winter  !   list  ye  there 

To  many  a  deep  and  dying  groan 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  179 

Or  start,  ye  demons  of  the  midnight  air, 
At  shrieks  and  thunders  louder  than  your  own. 

Alas  !   ev'n  your  unhallowed  breath 
May  spare  the  victim  fallen  low ; 

But  man  will  ask  no  truce  to  death, 
No  bounds  to  human  wo.* 


LINES, 

BY  MRS.  HARTLEY,  AT  DRURY-LANE  THEATRE,  ON 
THE  FIRST  OPENING  OF  THE  HOUSK  AFTER  THE  DEATH 
OF  THE  PRINCESS  CHARLOTTE,  1817. 

BRITONS  !   although  our  task  is  but  to  show 

The  scenes  and  passions  of  fictitious  wo, 

Think  not  we  come  this  night  without  a  part 

In  that  deep  sorrow  of  the  public  heart, 

Which  like  a  shade  hath  darkened  every  place, 

And  moistened  with  a  tear  the  manliest  face  ! 

The  bell  is  scarcely  hushed  in  Windsor's  piles. 

That  tolled  a  requiem  from  the  solemn  aisles, 

For  her,  the  royal  flower,  low  laid  in  dust, 

That  was  your  fairest  hope,  your  fondest  trust. 

Unconscious  of  the  doom,  we  dreamed,  alas  ! 

That  ev'n  these  walls,  ere  many  months  should  pass, 

Which  but  return  sad  accents  for  her  now, 

Perhaps  had  witnessed  her  benignant  brow, 

Cheered  by  the  voice  you  would  have  raised  on  high, 

In  bursts  of  British  love  and  loyalty. 

But,  Britain !   now  thy  chief,  thy  people  mourn, 

And  Claremont's  home  of  love  is  left  forlorn :  — 

*  This  ode  was  written  in  German}-,  at  the  close  of  1800,  befor«  th« 
conclusion  of  hostilities 


180  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

There,  -where  the  happiest  of  the  happy  dwelt, 

The  'scutcheon  glooms,  and  royalty  hath  felt 

A  wound  that  every  bosom  feels  its  own,  — 

The  blessing  of  a  father's  heart  o'erthrown  — 

The  most  beloved  and  most  devoted  bride 

Torn  from  an  agonized  husband's  side, 

Who,  "long  as  Memory  holds  her  seat,"  shall  view 

That  speechless,  more  than  spoken,  last  adieu, 

When  the  fixed  eye  long  looked  connubial  faith, 

And  beamed  affection  in  the  trance  of  death. 

Sad  was  the  pomp  that  yesternight  beheld, 

As  with  the  mourner's  heart  the  anthem  swelled  ; 

While  torch  succeeding  torch  illumed  each  high 

And  bannered  arch  of  England's  chivalry. 

The  rich  plumed  canopy,  the  gorgeous  pall, 

The  sacred  march,  and  sable-vested  wall,  — 

These  were  not  rites  of  inexpressive  show, 

But  hallowed  as  the  types  of  real  wo ! 

Daughter  of  England !    for  a  nation's  sighs, 

A  nation's  heart  went  with  thine  obsequies  ! 

And  oft  shall  time  revert  a  look  of  grief 

On  thine  existence,  beautiful  and  brief. 

Fair  spirit !    send  thy  blessing  from  above 

On  realms  where  thou  art  canonized  by  love  ! 

Give  to  a  father's,  husband's  bleeding  mind, 

The  peace  that  angels  lend  to  human-kind  ; 

To  us  who  in  thy  loved  remembrance  feel 

A  sorrowing,  but  a  soul- ennobling  zeal  — 

A  loyalty  that  touches  all  the  best 

And  loftiest  principles  of  England's  breast ! 

Still  may  thy  name  speak  concord  from  the  tomb  — 

Still  in  the  Muse's  breath  thy  memory  bloom  ! 

They  shall  describe  thy  life  —  thy  form  portray ; 

But  all  the  love  that  mourns  thee  swept  away, 

'Tis  not  in  language  or  expressive  arts 

To  paint  —  ye  feel  it,  Britons,  in  your  hearts  ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  181 


LINES    ON    THE    GRAVE    OF    A    SUICIDE. 

BY  strangers  left  upon  a  lonely  shore, 
Unknown,  unhonored,  was  the  friendless  dead; 

For  child  to  weep,  or  widow  to  deplore, 
There  never  carne  to  his  unburied  head  — 
All  from  his  dreary  habitation  fled. 

Nor  will  the  lanterned  fisherman  at  eve 

Launch  on  that  water  by  the  witches'  tower, 

Where  hellebore  and  hemlock  seem  to  weave 
Bound  its  dark  vaults  a  melancholy  bower 
For  spirits  of  the  dead  at  night's  enchanted  hour. 

They  dread  to  meet  thee,  poor  unfortunate  ! 

Whose  crime  it  was,  on  Life's  unfinished  road, 
To  feel  the  step-dame  buffetings  of  fate, 

And  render  back  thy  being's  heavy  load. 

Ah  !   once,  perhaps,  the  social  passions  glowed 
In  thy  devoted  bosom  —  and  the  hand 

That  smote  its  kindred  heart,  might  yet  be  prone 
To  deeds  of  mercy.     Who  may  understand 

Thy  many  woes,  poor  suicide,  unknown  ?  — 
He  who  thy  being  gave  shall  judge  of  thee  alone. 
16 


182  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS, 


REULLURA.* 

STAR  of  the  morn  and  eve, 

Reullura  shone  like  thee, 
And  well  for  her  might  Aodh  grieve, 

The  dark-attired  Culdee. 
Peace  to  their  shades  !    the  pure  Culdeea 

Were  Albyn's  earliest  priests  of  God, 
Ere  yet  an  island  of  her  seas 

By  foot  of  Saxon  monk  was  trod, 
Long  ere  her  churchmen  by  bigotry 
Were  barred  from  wedlock's  holy  tie. 
'Twas  then  that  Aodh,  famed  afar, 

In  lona  preached  the  word  with  power, 
And  Reullura,  beauty's  star, 

Was  the  partner  of  his  bower. 

But,  Aodh,  the  roof  lies  low, 

And  the  thistle-down  waves  bleaching, 
And  the  bat  nits  to  and  fro 

Where  the  Gad  once  heard  thy  preaching 
And  fallen  is  each  columned  aisle 

Where  the  chiefs  and  the  people  knelt. 
'Twas  near  that  temple's  goodly  pile 

That  honored  of  men  they  dwelt ; 
For  Aodh  was  wise  in  the  sacred  law, 
And  bright  Reullura' s  eyes  oft  saw 

The  veil  of  fate  uplifted. 
Alas,  with  what  visions  of  awe 

Her  soul  in  that  hour  was  gifted  — 
When  pale  in  the  temple  and  faint, 

With  Aodh  she  stood  alone 

*  Renllura,  in  Gaelic,  signifies  "  beautiful  star." 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  183 

By  the  statue  of  an  aged  Saint ! 

Fair  sculptured  was  the  stone  — 
It  bore  a  crucifix ; 

Fame  said  it  once  had  graced 
A  Christian  temple,  which  the  Picts 

In  the  Britons'  land  laid  waste: 
The  Pictish  men,  by  St.  Columb  taught, 
Had  hither  the  holy  relic  brought. 
Reullura  eyed  the  statue's  face, 

And  cried,  "It  is,  he  shall  come, 
Even  he,  in  this  very  place, 

To  avenge  my  martyrdom. 

"For,  wo  to  the  Gae'l  people! 

TJlvfagre  is  on  the  main, 
And  lona  shall  look  from  tower  and  steeple 

On  the  coming  ships  of  the  Dane ; 
And,  dames  and  daughters,  shall  all  your  locks 

With  the  spoiler's  grasp  entwine  ? 
No  !   some  shall  have  shelter  in  caves  and  rocks, 

And  the  deep  sea  shall  be  mine. 
Baffled  by  me  shall  the  Dane  return, 
And  here  shall  his  torch  in  the  temple  burn, 
Until  that  holy  man  shall  plough 

The  waves  from  Innisfail. 
His  sail  is  on  the  deep  e'en  now, 

And  swells  to  the  southern  gale." 

"  Ah !   knowest  thou  not,  my  bride," 

The  holy  Aodh  said, 
"That  the  Saint  whose  form  we  stand  beside 

Has  for  ages  slept  with  the  dead?" 
"He  liveth,  he  liveth,"  she  said  again, 

"  For  the  span  of  his  life  tenfold  extends 
Beyond  the  wonted  years  of  men. 

He  sits  by  the  graves  of  well-loved  friends 


184  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

That  died  ere  thy  grandsire's  grandsire's  birth; 
The  oak  is  decayed  with  age  on  earth, 
Whose  acorn-seed  had  been  planted  by  him ; 

And  his  parents  remember  the  day  of  dread 
"When  the  sun  on  the  cross  looked  dim, 

And  the  graves  gave  up  their  dead. 
Yet  preaching  from  clime  to  clime, 

He  hath  roamed  the  earth  for  ages, 
And  hither  he  shall  come  in  time 

When  the  wrath  of  the  heathen  rages, 
In  time  a  remnant  from  the  sword  — 

Ah !   but  a  remnant  to  deliver ; 
Yet,  blest  be  the  name  of  the  Lord ! 

His  martyrs  shall  go  into  bliss  for  ever. 
Lochlin,*  appalled,  shall  put  up  her  steel, 
And  thou  shalt  embark  on  the  bounding  keel; 
Safe  shalt  thou  pass  through  her  hundred  ships, 

With  the  Saint  and  a  remnant  of  the  Gael, 
And  the  Lord  will  instruct  thy  lips 

To  preach  in  Innisfail."f 

The  sun,  now  about  to  set, 

Was  burning  o'er  Tiree, 
And  no  gathering  cry  rose  yet 

O'er  the  isles  of  Albyn's  sea, 
Whilst  Reullura  saw  far  rowers  dip 

Their  oars  beneath  the  sun, 
And  the  phantom  of  many  a  Danish  ship, 

Where  ship  there  yet  was  none. 
And  the  shield  of  alarm  was  dumb, 
Nor  did  their  warning  till  midnight  come, 
When  watch-fires  burst  from  across  the  main 

From  Rona,  and  Uist,  and  Skye 
To  tell  that  the  ships  of  the  Dane 

And  the  red-haired  slayers  were  nigh. 

*  Denmark.  f  Ireland. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  185 

Our  isle-men  arose  from  slumbers. 

And  buckled  on  their  arms ; 
But  few,  alas  !   were  their  numbers 

In  Lochlin's  mailed  swarms. 
And  the  blade  of  the  bloody  Norse 

Has  filled  the  shores  of  the  Gael 
With  many  a  floating  corse, 

And  with  many  a  woman's  wail. 
They  have  lighted  the  islands  with  ruin's  torch, 
And  the  holy  men  of  lona's  church 
In  the  temple  of  God  lay  slain ; 

All  but  Aodh,  the  last  Culdee, 
But  bound  with  many  an  iron  chain, 

Bound  in  that  church  was  he. 
And  where  is  Aodh's  bride? 

Rocks  of  the  ocean  flood  ! 
Plunged  she  not  from  your  heights  in  pride, 

And  mocked  the  men  of  blood  ? 
Then  Ulvfagre  and  his  bands 

In  the  temple  lighted  their  banquet  up, 
And  the  print  of  their  blood-red  hands 

Was  left  on  the  altar  cup. 
'Twas  then  that  the  Norseman  to  Aodh  said, 
"  Tell  where  thy  church's  treasure's  laid, 
Or  I'll  hew  thee  limb  from  limb." 

As  he  spoke  the  bell  struck  three, 
And  every  torch  grew  dim 

That  lighted  their  revelry. 

But  the  torches  again  burnt  bright, 

And  brighter  than  before, 
When  an  aged  man  of  majestic  height 

Entered  the  temple  door. 
Hushed  was  the  revellers'  sound, 

They  were  struck  as  mute  as  the  dead, 
And  their  hearts  were  appalled  by  the  very  sound 

Of  his  footsteps'  measured  tread. 
16* 


186  CAMPBELL     S     POEMS. 

Nor  word  was  spoken  by  one  beholder, 

While  he  flung  his  white  robe  back  o'er  his  shoulder, 

And  stretching  his  arms  —  as  each 

Unriveted  Aodh's  bands, 
As  if  the  gyves  had  been  a  wreath 

Of  willows  in  his  hands. 

All  saw  the  stranger's  similitude 

To  the  ancient  statue's  form; 
The  Saint  before  his  own  image  stood, 

And  grasped  Ulvfagre's  arm. 
Then  uprose  the  Danes  at  last  to  deliver 

Their  chief,  and  shouting  with  one  accord, 
They  drew  the  shaft  from  its  rattHng  quiver, 

They  lifted  the  spear  and  sword, 
And  levelled  their  spears  in  rows ; 
But  down  went  axes,  and  spears,  and  bows, — 
When  the  Saint  with  his  crosier  signed, 

The  archer's  hand  on  the  string  was  stopped, 
And  down,  like  reeds  laid  flat  by  the  wind, 

Their  lifted  weapons  dropped. 
The  Saint  then  gave  a  signal  mute, 

And  though  Ulvfagre  willed  it  not, 
He  came  and  stood  at  the  statue's  foot, 

Spell-riveted  to  the  spot, 
Till  hands  invisible  shook  the  wall, 

And  the  tottering  image  was  dashed 
Down  from  its  lofty  pedestal. 

On  Ulvfagre's  helm  it  crashed  — 
Helmet,  and  skull,  and  flesh,  and  brain, 
It  crushed  as  millstones  crush  the  grain. 
Then  spoke  the  Saint,  whilst  all  and  each. 

Of  the  Heathen  trembled  round, 
And  the  pauses  amidst  his  speech 

Were  as  awful  as  the  sound : 

"Go  back,  ye  wolves,  to  your  dens,"  he  cried, 
"And  tell  the  nations  abroad, 


POEMS.  J87 

How  the  fiercest  of  your  herd  has  died 

That  slaughtered  the  flock  of  God. 
Gather  him  bone  by  bone, 

And  take  with  you  o'er  the  flood 
The  fragments  of  that  avenging  stone 

That  drank  his  heathen  blood. 
These  are  the  spoils  from  lona's  sack, 

The  only  spoils  ye  shall  carry  back; 
For  the  hand  that  uplifteth  spear  or  sword 

Shall  be  withered  by  palsy's  shock, 
And  I  come  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 

To  deliver  a  remnant  of  his  flock." 

A  remnant  was  called  together, 

A  doleful  remnant  of  the  Gael, 
And  the  Saint  in  the  ship  that  had  brought  him  hither 

Took  the  mourners  to  Innisfail. 
Unscathed  they  left  lona's  strand, 

When  the  opal  morn  first  flushed  the  sky, 
For  the  Norse  dropped  spear,  and  bow,  and  brand, 

And  looked  on  them  silently ; 
Safe  from  their  hiding-places  came 
Orphans  and  mothers,  child  and  dame : 
But,  alas  !  when  the  search  for  Reullura  spread, 

No  answering  voice  was  given, 
For  the  sea  had  gone  o'er  her  lovely  head, 

And  her  spirit  was  in  Heaven. 


188 


THE  TURKISH  LADY. 

'TWAS  the  hour  when  rites  unholy 
Called  each  Paynim  voice  to  prayer, 

And  the  star  that  faded  slowly 
Left  to  dews  the  freshened  air. 

Day  her  sultry  fires  had  wasted, 

Calm  and  sweet  the  moonlight  rose ; 

Ev'n  a  captive  spirit  tasted 
Half  oblivion  of  his  woes. 

Then  'twas  from  an  Emir's  palace 
Came  an  Eastern  lady  bright ; 

She,  in  spite  of  tyrants  jealous, 
Saw  and  loved  an  English  knight. 

"Tell  me,  captive,  why  in  anguish 
Foes  have  dragged  thee  here  to  dwell, 

Where  poor  Christians  as  they  languish 
Hear  no  sound  of  Sabbath  bell  ? "  — 

"  'Twas  on  Transylvania's  Bannat, 
When  the  Crescent  shone  afar, 

Like  a  pale  disastrous  planet 
O'er  the  purple  tide  of  war  — 

"  In  that  day  of  desolation, 

Lady,  I  was  captive  made ; 
Bleeding  for  my  Christian  nation 

By  the  walls  of  high  Belgrade." 

"Captive  !  could  the  brightest  jewel 
From  my  turban  set  thee  free  ? " 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  189 

"  Lady,  no  !  —  the  gift  were  cruel, 
Ransomed,  yet  if  reft  of  thee. 

"  Say,  fair  princess !  would  it  grieve  thee 
Christian  climes  should  we  behold  ?  "  — 

"  Nay,  bold  knight !  I  would  not  leave  thee 
Were  thy  ransom  paid  in  gold  !  " 

Now  in  Heaven's  blue  expansion 

Rose  the  midnight  star  to  view, 
When  to  quit  her  father's  mansion 

Thrice  she  wept,  and  bade  adieu! 

"  Fly  we  then,  while  none  discover ! 

Tyrant  barks,  in  vain  ye  ride  ! " 
Soon  at  Rhodes  the  British  lover 

Clasped  his  blooming  Eastern  bride. 


THE  BRAVE  ROLAND. 

THE  brave  Roland  !  —  the  brave  Roland  !  — 
False  tidings  reached  the  Rhenish  strand, 

That  he  had  fallen  in  fight; 
And  thy  faithful  bosom  swooned  with  pain, 
O  loveliest  maiden  of  Allemayne  ! 

For  the  loss  of  thine  own  true  knight. 

But  why  so  rash  has  she  ta'en  the  veil, 
In  yon  Nonnenwerder's  cloisters  pale  ? 

For  her  vow  had  scarce  been  sworn, 
And  the  fatal  mantle  o'er  her  flung, 
When  the  Drachenfels  to  a  trumpet  rung  — 

Twas  her  own  dear  warrior's  horn! 


1 90  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Wo  !  wo  !  each  heart  shall  bleed  —  shall  break ! 
She  would  have  hung  upon  his  neck, 
Had  he  come  but  yester-even ; 
And  he  had  clasped  those  peerless  charms 
That  shall  never,  never  fill  his  arms, 
x    Or  meet  him  but  in  heaven. 

Yet  Roland  the  brave  —  Roland  the  true  — 
He  could  not  bid  that  spot  adieu  ; 

It  was  dear  still  'midst  his  woes ; 
For  he  loved  to  breathe  the  neighboring  air, 
And  to  think  she  blessed  him  in  her  prayer, 

When  the  Halleluiah  rose. 

There's  yet  one  window  of  that  pile, 
Which  he  built  above  the  Nun's  green  isle ; 

Thence  sad  and  oft  looked  he 
(When  the  chant  and  organ  sounded  slow> 
On  the  mansion  of  his  love  below, 

For  herself  he  might  not  see. 

She  died  !  —  he  sought  the  battle-plain  ; 
Her  image  filled  his  dying  brain, 

When  he  fell  and  wished  to  fall : 
And  her  name  was  in  his  latest  sigh, 
When  Roland,  the  flower  of  chivalry, 

Expired  at  Roncevall. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  191 


THE  SPECTRE  BOAT. 

A   BALLAD. 

LIGHT  rued  false  Ferdinand  to  leave  a  lovely  maid  for 
lorn, 

Who  broke  her  heart  and  died  to  hide  her  blushing 
cheek  from  scorn. 

One  night  he  dreamed  he  woo'd  her  in  their  wonted 
bower  of  love, 

Where  the  flowers  sprang  thick  around  them,  and  the 
birds  sang  sweet  above. 

But  the  scene  was  swiftly  changed  into  a  churchyard's 
dismal  view. 

And  her  lips  grew  black  beneath  his  kiss,  from  love's 
delicious  hue. 

What  more  he  dreamed,  he  told  to  none ;  but  shudder 
ing,  pale,  and  dumb, 

Looked  out  upon  the  waves,  like  one  that  knew  his 
hour  was  come. 

'Twas  now  the  dead  watch  of  the  night  —  the  helm  was 

lashed  a-lee, 
And  the  ship  rode  where  Mount  JEtna   lights   the   deep 

Levantine  sea ; 
When  beneath  its  glare  a  boat  came,  rowed  by  a  woman 

in  her  shroud, 
Who,  with  eyes  that  made  our  blood  run  cold,  stood  up 

and  spoke  aloud  :  — 

"  Come,  Traitor,  down,  for  whom  my  ghost  still  wanders 

unforgiven ! 
Come   down,    false   Ferdinand,    for   whom    T  broke   my 

peace  with  heaven  !  " 


J92  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

It  was  vain  to  hold  the  victim,  for  he  plunged  to  meet 

her  call, 
Like  the  bird  that  shrieks   and   flutters   in   the   gazing 

serpent's  thrall. 

You    may   guess  the   boldest   mariner   shrunk   daunted 

from  the  sight, 
For  the  Spectre  and  her  winding-sheet  shone  blue  with 

hideous  light ; 
Like  a  fiery  wheel   the   boat  spun  with  the  waving  of 

her  hand, 
And   round  they  went,    and   down   they   went,    as   the 

cock  crew  from  the  land. 


SONG. 

OH,  how  hard  it  is  to  find 

The  one  just  suited  to  our  mind; 

And  if  that  one  should  be 
False,  unkind,  or  found  too  late, 
What  can  we  do  but  sigh  at  fate, 

And  sing  Wo's  me  —  Wo's  me ! 

\Love' s  a  boundless  burning  waste, 
Where  Bliss's  stream  we  seldom  taste, 

And  still  more  seldom  flee 
Suspense's  thorns,  Suspicion's  stings; 
Yet  somehow  Love  a  something  brings 

That's  sweet  —  even  when  we  sigh  "  Wo's  me  ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 
THE  LOVER  TO  HIS  MISTRESS 

ON    HER   BIRTH-DAY. 

IF  any  white-winged  Power  above 

My  joys  and  griefs  survey, 
The  day  when  thou  wert  born,  my  love  — 

He  surely  blessed  that  day. 

1  laughed  (till  taught  by  thee)  when  told 

Of  Beauty's  magic  powers, 
That  ripened  life's  dull  ore  to  gold, 

And  changed  its  weeds  to  flowers. 

My  mind  had  lovely  shapes  portrayed; 

But  thought  I  earth  had  one 
Could  make  even  Fancy's  visions  fade 

Like  stars  before  the  sun? 

I  gazed,  and  felt  upon  my  lips 

The  unfinished  accents  hang : 
One  moment's  bliss,  one  burning  kiss 

To  rapture  changed  each  pang. 

And  though  as  swift  as  lightning's  flash 

Those  tranced  moments  flew, 
Not  all  the  waves  of  time  shall  wash 

Their  memory  from  my  view. 

But  duly  shall  my  raptured  song, 

And  gladly  shall  my  eyes 
Still  bless  this  day's  return,  as  long 

As  thou  shalt  see  it  rise. 
17 


194  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 


ADELQITHA. 

THE  ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded, 

And  sad  pale  ADELGITHA  came, 
When  forth  a  valiant  champion  bounded, 

And  slew  the  slanderer  of  her  fame. 

She  wept,  delivered  from  her  danger ; 

But  when  he  knelt  to  claim  her  glove  — 
"  Seek  not,"  she  cried,  "  oh  !  gallant  stranger, 

For  hapless  ADELGITHA'S  love. 

"For  he  is  in  a  foreign  far  land 

Whose  arm  should  now  have  set  me  free; 
And  I  must  wear  the  willow  garland 

For  him  that's  dead,  or  false  to  me." 

"  Nay !  say  not  that  his  faith  is  tainted  !  "  — 
He  raised  his  visor  —  At  the  sight 

She  fell  into  his  arms  and  fainted  : 
It  was  indeed  her  own  true  knight ! 


LINES 

ON   RECEIVING    A    SEAL   WITH    THE     CAMPBELL     CREST,    FBOJl 
K.    M — ,    BEFORE    HER   MARRIAGE. 

THIS  wax  returns  not  back  more  fair 
Th'  impression  of  the  gift  you  send, 

Than  stamped  upon  my  thoughts  I  bear 
The  image  of  yeur  worth,  my  friend ! 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  195 

We  are  not  friends  of  yesterday ;  — 

But  poets'  fancies  are  a  little 
Disposed  to  heat  and  cool,  (they  say,)  — 

By  turns  impressible  and  brittle. 

Well!  should  its  frailty  e'er  condemn 
My  heart  to  prize  or  please  you  less, 

Your  type  is  still  the  sealing  gem, 
And  mine  the  waxen  brittleness. 

What  transcripts  of  my  weal  and  wo 

This  little  signet  yet  may  lock,  — 
What  utterances  to  friend  or  foe, 

In  reason's  calm  or  passion's  shock ! 

What  scenes  of  life's  yet  curtained  page 

May  own  its  confidential  die, 
Whose  stamp  awaits  th'  unwritten  page, 

And  feelings  of  futurity  !  — 

Yet  wheresoe'er  my  pen  I  lift 

To  date  the  epistolary  sheet, 
The  blest  occasion  of  the  gift 

Shall  make  its  recollection  sweet ; 

Sent  when  the  star  that  rules  your  fates 
Hath  reached  its  influence  most  benign  — 

When  every  heart  congratulates, 

And  none  more  cordially  than  mine. 

So  speed  my  song  —  marked  with  the  crest 
That  erst  the  advent'rous  Norman  wore, 

Who  won  the  Lady  of  the  West, 
The  daughter  of  Macaillan  Mor. 

Crest  of  my  sires  !  whose  blood  it  sealed 
With  glory  in  the  strife  of  swords, 


196 


Ne'er  may  the  scroll  that  bears  it  yield 
Degenerate  thoughts  or  faithless  words ! 

Yet  little  might  I  prize  the  stone, 
If  it  but  typed  the  feudal  tree 

From  whence,  a  scattered  leaf,  I'm  blown 
In  Fortune's  mutability. 

No  !  —  but  it  tells  me  of  a  heart 
Allied  by  friendship's  living  tie ; 

A  prize  beyond  the  herald's  art  — 
Our  soul-sprung  consanguinity ! 

KATH'RINE  !  to  many  an  hour  of  mine 
Light  wings  and  sunshine  you  have  lent; 

And  so  adieu,  and  still  be  thine 
The  all-in-all  of  life  —  Content ! 


THE  DIRGE  OF  WALLACE. 

THEY  lighted  a  taper  at  the  dead  of  night, 

And  chanted  their  holiest  hymn ; 
But  her  brow  and  her  bosom  were  damp  with  affright 

Her  eye  was  all  sleepless  and  dim ! 
And  the  lady  of  Elderslie  wept  for  her  lord, 

When  a  death-watch  beat  in  her  lonely  room, 
When  her  curtain  had  shook  of  its  own  accord, 
And  the  raven  had  napped  at  her  window-board  — 

To  tell  of  her  warrior's  doom. 

" Now,  sing  ye  the  death- song,  and  loudly  pray 

For  the  soul  of  my  knight  so  dear ; 
And  call  me  a  widow  this  wretched  day, 

Since  the  warning  of  God  is  here. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  197 

For  a  nightmare  rides  on  my  strangled  sleep  :  — 
The  lord  of  my  bosom  is  doomed  to  die ; 

His  valorous  heart  they  have  •wounded  deep ; 

And  the  blood-red  tears  shall  his  country  weep 
For  Wallace  of  Elderslie  !  " 

Yet  knew  not  his  country  that  ominous  hour, 

Ere  the  loud  matin  bell  was  rung, 
That  a  trumpet  of  death  on  an  English  towei 

Had  the  dirge  of  her  champion  sung ! 
When  his  dungeon  light  looked  dim  and  red 

On  the  high-born  blood  of  a  martyr  slain, 
No  anthem  was  sung  at  his  holy  death-bed ; 
No  weeping  there  was  when  his  bosom  bled  — 

And  his  heart  was  rent  in  twain  ! 

Oh,  it  was  not  thus  when  his  oaken  spear 

Was  true  to  that  knight  forlorn, 
And  hosts  of  a  thousand  were  scattered,  like  deer 

At  the  blast  of  the  hunter's  horn ; 
When  he  strode  on  the  wreck  of  each  well-fought  field 

With  the  yellow-haired  chiefs  of  his  native  land; 
For  his  lance  was  not  shivered  on  helmet  or  shield  — 
And  the  sword  that  seemed  fit  for  Archangel  to  wield 

Was  light  in  his  terrible  hand ! 

Yet  bleeding  and  bound,  though  the  Wallace  wight 

For  his  long-loved  country  die, 
The  bugle  ne'er  sung  to  a  braver  knight 

Than  William  of  Elderslie ! 
But  the  day  of  his  glory  shall  never  depart; 

His  head  unentombed  shall  with  glory  be  palmed: 
From  its  blood  streaming  altar  his  spirit  shall  start; 
Though  the  raven  has  fed  on  his  mouldering  heart, 

A  nobler  was  never  embalmed ! 
17* 


198  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 


CHAUCER  AND   WINDSOR. 

LONO  shalt  thou  flourish,  Windsor  !    bodying  forth 

Chivalric  times,  and  long  shall  live  around 

Thy  Castle  — the  old  oaks  of  British  birth, 

Whose  knarled  roots,  tenacious  and  profound, 

As  with  a  lion's  talons  grasp  the  ground. 

But  should  thy  towers  in  ivied  ruin  rot, 

There's  one,  thine  inmate  once,  whose  strain  renowned 

Would  interdict  thy  name  to  be  forgot ; 

For  Chaucer  loved  thy  bowers  and  trode  this  very  spot. 

Chaucer  !    our  Helicon's  first  fountain- stream, 

Our  morning  star  of  song  —  that  led  the  way 

To  welcome  the  long-after  coming  beam 

Of  Spenser's  light  and  Shakspeare's  perfect  day. 

Old  England's  fathers  live  in  Chaucer's  lay, 

As  if  they  ne'er  had  died.     He  grouped  and  drew 

Their  likeness  with  a  spirit  of  life  so  gay, 

That  still  they  live  and  breathe  in  Fancy's  view, 

Fresh  beings  fraught  with  truth's  imperishable  hue. 


GILDEROY. 

THE  last,  the  fatal  hour  is  come, 
That  bears  my  love  from  me : 

I  hear  the  dead  note  of  the  drum, 
I  mark  the  gallows'  tree ! 

The  bell  has  toll'd ;  it  shakes  my  heart; 
The  trumpet  speaks  thy  name; 


CAMPBELL  POEMS.  11)9 

And  must  my  Gilderoy  depart 
To  bear  a  death  of  shame? 

No  bosom  trembles  for  thy  doom; 

No  mourner  -wipes  a  tear; 
The  gallows'  foot  is  all  thy  tomb, 

The  sledge  is  all  thy  bier. 

Oh,  Gilderoy!  bethought  we  then 

So  soon,  so  sad  to  part, 
When  first  in  Roslin's  lovely  glen 

You  triumph'd  o'er  my  heart? 

Your  locks  they  glitter' d  to  the  sheen, 

Your  hunter  garb  was  trim ; 
And  graceful  was  the  riband  green 

That  bound  your  manly  limb ! 

Ah !  little  thought  I  to  deplore 

Those  limbs  in  fetters  bound; 
Or  hear  upon  the  scaffold  floor, 

The  midnight  hammer  sound. 

Ye  cruel,  cruel,  that  combined 

The  guiltless  to  pursue ; 
My  Gilderoy  was  ever  kind, 

He  could  not  injure  you. 

A  long  adieu !  but  where  shall  fly 

Thy  widow  all  forlorn, 
When  every  mean  and  cruel  eye 

Regards  my  woe  with  scorn? 

Yes  they  will  mock  thy  widow's  tears, 

And  hate  thy  orphan  boy ; 
Alas !  his  infant  beauty  wears 

The  form  of  Gilderoy. 


200  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Then  will  I  seek  the  dreary  mound 
That  wraps  thy  mouldering  clay, 

And  weep  and  linger  on  the  ground, 
And  sigh  my  heart  away. 


STANZAS, 

ON   THE   THREATENED    INVASION,    1803. 

OUR  bosoms  we'll  bare  for  the  glorious  strife, 

And  our  oath  is  recorded  on  high, 
To  prevail  in  the  cause  that  is  dearer  than  life, 

Or  crushed  in  its  ruins  to  die  ! 

Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land! 

'Tis  the  home  we  hold  sacred  is  laid  to  our  trust  — 
God  bless  the  green  Isle  of  the  brave ! 

Should  a  conqueror  tread  on  our  forefathers'  dust, 
It  would  rouse  the  old  dead  from  their  grave ! 

Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 

And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land ! 

In  a  Briton's  sweet  home  shall  a  spoiler  abide, 

Profaning  its  loves  and  its  charms  ? 
Shall  a  Frenchman  insult  the  loved  fair  at  our  side? 

To  arms  !    oh,  my  Country,  to  arms  ! 
Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land! 

Shall  a  tyrant  enslave  us,  my  countrymen  !  —  No  ! 
His  head  to  the  sword  shall  be  given  — 


CAMPBELL'S 


POEMS 


A  death-bed  repentance  be  taught  the  proud  foe, 

And  his  blood  be  an  offering  to  Heaven  ! 
Then  rise,  fellow  freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land! 


THE  HITTER  BANK. 

THE  Hitter  Bann  from  Hungary 

Came  back,  renowned  in  arms, 
^But  scorning  jousts  of  chivalry, 
And  love  and  ladies'  charms. 

While  other  knights  held  revels,  he 
Was  wrapped  in  thoughts  of  gloom, 

And  in  Vienna's  hostelrie 
Slow  paced  his  lonely  room. 

There  entered  one  whose  face  he  knew, 
Whose  voice,  he  was  aware, 

He.  oft  at  mass  had  listened  to, 
In  the  holy  house  of  prayer. 

'Twas  the  Abbot  of  St.  James's  monks, 

A  fresh  and  fair  old  man : 
His  reverend  air  arrested  even 

The  gloomy  Hitter  Bann. 

But  seeing  with  him  an  ancient  dame 

Come  clad  in  Scotch  attire, 
The  Hitter's  color  went  and  came, 

And  loud  he  spoke  in  ire. 


202  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

"  Ha !   nurse  of  her  that  was  my  bane, 

Name  not  her  name  to  me ; 
I  -wish  it  blotted  from  my  brain: 

Art  poor?  —  take  alms,  and  flee." 

"Sir  Knight,"  the  Abbot  interposed, 
"This  case  your  ear  demands;" 

And  the  crone  cried,  with  a  cross  enclosed 
In  both  her  trembling  hands :  — 

"Remember,  each  his  sentence  waits; 

And  he  that  shall  rebut 
Sweet  Mercy's  suit,  on  him  the  gates 

Of  Mercy  shall  be  shut. 

"  You  wedded,  undispensed  by  Church, 
Your  cousin  Jane  in  Spring;  — 

In  Autumn,  when  you  went  to  search 
For  Churchmen's  pardoning, 

"Her  house  denounced  your  marriage-band, 

Betrothed  her  to  De  Grey, 
And  the  ring  you  put  upon  her  hand 

Was  wrenched  by  force  away. 

"Then  wept  your  Jane  upon  my  neck. 

Crying,  'Help  me,  nurse,  to  flee 
To  my  Howel  Barm's  Glamorgan  hills ; ' 

But  word  arrived  —  ah  me  !  — 

"You  were  not  there;   and  'twas  their  threap 

By  foul  means  or  by  fair, 
To-morrow  morning  was  to  set 

The  seal  on  her  despair. 

"  I  had  a  son,  a  sea-boy,  in 
A  ship  at  Hartland  Bay ; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  203 

By  his  aid  from  her  cruel  kin 
I  bore  my  bird  away. 

"To  Scotland  from  the  Devon's 

Green  myrtle  shores  we  fled; 
And  the  Hand  that  sent  the  ravens 

To  Elijah,  gave  us  bread. 

"She  wrote  you  by  my  son,  but  he 

From  England  sent  us  word 
You  had  gone  into  some  far  countrie, 

In  grief  and  gloom  he  heard. 

"For  they  that  wronged  you,  to  elude 

Your  wrath,  defamed  my  child ; 
And  you  —  ay,  blush,  Sir,  as  you  should  — 

Believed,  and  were  beguiled. 

"To  die  but  at  your  feet,  she  vowed 

To  roam  the  world ;   and  we 
Would  both  have  sped  and  begged  our  bread, 

But  so  it  might  not  be: 

"For  when  the  snow-storm  beat  our  roof, 

She  bore  a  boy,  Sir  Bann, 
Who  grew  as  fair  your  likeness  proof 

As  child  e'er  grew  like  man. 

"  'Twas  smiling  on  that  babe  one  morn, 

While  health  bloomed  on  the  moor, 
Her  beauty  struck  young  Lord  Kinghorn 

As  he  hunted  past  our  door. 

"  She  shunned  him,  but  he  raved  of  Jane, 

And  roused  his  mother's  pride: 
Who  came  to  us  in  high  disdain,  — 

'And  where's  the  face,'  she  cried, 


204  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

'"Has  witched  my  boy  to  wish  for  one 

So  wretched  for  his  wife?  — 
Dost  lova  thy  husband  ?    Know,  my  son 

Has  sworn  to  seek  his  life.' 

"Her  anger  sore  dismayed  us, 
For  our  mite  was  wearing  scant, 

And,  unless  that  dame  would  aid  us, 
There  was  none  to  aid  our  want. 

"  So  I  told  her,  weeping  bitterly, 
What  all  our  woes  had  been ; 

And,  though  she  was  a  stern  ladie, 
The  tears  stood  in  her  een. 

"And  she  housed  us  both,  when,  cheerfully 

My  child  to  her  had  sworn, 
That  even  if  made  a  -widow,  she 

Would  never  wed  Kinghorn." 

Here  paused  the  nurse,  and  then  began 

The  Abbot,  standing  by:  — 
"  Three  months  ago  a  wounded  man 

To  our  abbey  came  to  die. 

"He  heard  me  long,  with  ghastly  eye§ 

And  hand  obdurate  clenched, 
Speak  of  the  worm  that  never  dies, 

And  the  fire  that  is  not  quenched. 

"  At  last  by  what  this  scroll  attests 

He  left  atonement  brief, 
For  years  of  anguish  to  the  breasts 

His  guilt  had  wrung  with  grief. 

"'There  lived,'  he  said,  'a  fair  young  darn* 
Beneath  my  mother's  roof; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  205 

I  loved  her,  but  against  my  flame 
Her  purity  was  proof. 

"  '  I  feigned  repentance,  friendship  pure  ; 

That  mood  she  did  not  check, 
But  let  her  husband's  miniature 

Be  copied  from  her  neck, 

" « As  means  to  search  him  ;   my  deceit 

Took  care  to  him  was  borne 
Nought  but  his  picture's  counterfeit, 

And  Jane's  reported  scorn. 

"  « The  treachery  took  :   she  waited  wild  ; 

My  slave  came  back  and  lied 
Whate'er  I  wished ;   she  clasped  her  child, 

And  swooned,  and  all  but  died. 

" '  I  felt  her  tears,  for  years  and  years, 

Quench  not  my  flame,  but  stir ; 
The  very  hate  I  bore  her  mate 

Increased  my  love  for  her. 

"  '  Fame  told  us  of  his  glory,  while 

Joy  flushed  the  face  of  Jane ; 
And  while  she  blessed  his  name,  her  smile 

Struck  fire  into  my  brain. 

" '  No  fears  could  damp ;   I  reached  the  camp, 

Sought  out  its  champion ; 
And  if  my  broad-sword  failed  at  last, 

'Twas  long  and  well  laid  on. 

"  '  This  wound's  my  meed,  my  name's  Kinghorn, 

My  foe's  the  Ritter  Bann.' 

The  wafer  to  his  lips  was  borne, 

And  we  shrived  the  dying  man. 
18 


206  CAMPBELL    S     POEMS. 

"He  died  not  till  you  went  to  fight 

The  Turks  at  Warradein; 
But  I  see  my  tale  has  changed  you  pale."  — 

The  Abbot  went  for  wine ; 

And  brought  a  little  page  who  poured 

It  out,  and  knelt  and  smiled ;  — 
The  stunned  knight  saw  himself  restored 

To  childhood  in  his  child ; 

And  stooped  and  caught  him  to  his  breast, 

Laughed  loud  and  wept  anon, 
And  with  a  shower  of  kisses  pressed 

The  darling  little  one. 

"  And  where  went  Jane ? "  —  "To  a  nunnery,  Sir  — 

Look  not  again  so  pale  — 
Kinghorn's  old  dame  grew  harsh  to  her."  — 

"  And  she  has  ta'en  the  veil !  "  — 

"  Sit  down,  Sir,"  said  the  priest,  "  I  bar 
Rash  words."  —  They  sat  all  three, 

And  the  boy  played  with  the  knight's  broad  star, 
As  he  kept  him  on  his  knee. 

"Think  ere  you  ask  her  dwelling-place," 

The  Abbot  further  said ; 
"Time  draws  a  veil  o'er  beauty's  face 

More  deep  than  cloister's  shade. 

"  Grief  may  have  made  her  what  you  can 

Scarce  love  perhaps  for  life." 
"  Hush,  Abbot,"  cried  the  Hitter  Bann, 

"  Or  tell  me  where's  my  wife." 

The  priest  undid  two  doors  that  hid 
The  inn's  adjacent  room, 


207 


And  there  a  lovely  woman  stood, 
Tears  bathed  her  beauty's  bloom. 

One  moment  may  with  bliss  repay 
Unnumbered  hours  of  pain  ; 

Such  was  the  throb  and  mutual  sob 
Of  the  Knight  embracing  Jane. 


SONG. 

"MEN  OF   ENGLAND." 

MEN  of  England !    who  inherit 

Eights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood ! 
Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  011  field  and  flood :  — 

By  the  foes  you've  fought  uncounted, 
By  the  glorious  deeds  you've  done. 

Trophies  captured  —  breaches  mounted, 
Navies  conquered  —  kingdoms  won  ! 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 
Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  the  freedom  of  your  fathers 

Glow  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 

What  are  monuments  of  bravery, 
Where  no  public  virtues  bloom? 

What  avail  in  lands  of  slavery, 
Trophied  temples,  arch,  and  tomb? 


208  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Pageants  !  —  Let  the  world  revere  us 
For  our  people's  rights  and  laws, 

And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 
Bared  in  Freedom's  holy  cause. 

Yours  are  Hampden's,  Russell's  glory, 
Sidney's  matchless  shade  is  yours,— 

Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 

Worth  a  hundred  Agincourts ! 

We're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 
Crowned  and  mitred  tyranny ;  — 

They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 
For  their  birthrights  —  so  will  we  ! 


SONG. 

DRINK  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  beat, 

And  if  you  nurse  a  flame 
That's  told  but  to  her  mutual  breast, 

We  will  not  ask  her  name. 

Enough,  while  memory  tranced  and  glad 

Paints  silently  the  fair, 
That  each  should  dream  of  joys  he's  had, 

Or  yet  may  hope  to  share. 

Yet  far,  far  hence  be  jest  or  boast 
From  hallowed  thoughts  so  dear; 

But  drink  to  her  that  each  loves  most, 
As  she  would  love  to  hear. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  209 


THE    HARPER. 

ON  the  green  banks  of  Shannon,  when  Sheelah  was  nigh, 

No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I ; 

No  harp  like  my  own  could  so  cheerily  play, 

And  wherever  I  went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  at  last  I  was  forced  from  my  Sheelah  to  part, 
She  said,  (while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart,) 
Oh  !    remember  your  Sheelah  when  far,  far  away ; 
And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray. 

Poor  dog  !    he  was  faithful  and  kind,  to  be  sure, 
And  he  constantly  loved  me,  although  I  was  poor ; 
When  the  sour-looking  folks  sent  me  heartless  away, 
I  had  always  a  friend  in  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  the  road  was  so  dark,  and  the  night  was  so  cold 
And  Pat  and  his  dog  were  grown  weary  and  old, 
How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of  gray, 
And  he  licked  me  for  kindness  —  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Though  my  wallet  was  scant,  I  remembered  his  case, 
Nor  refused  my  last  crust  to  his  pitiful  face ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter  day, 
And  I  played  a  sad  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Where  now  shall  I  go,  poor,  forsaken,  and  blind  r 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me,  so  faithful  and  kind? 
To  my  sweet  native  village,  so  far,  far  away, 
I  can  never  more  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

18* 


210  CAMPBELLS     POEMS. 


THE    WOUNDED    HUSSAR. 

ALONE,  to  the  banks  of  the  dark-rolling  Danube, 
Fair  Adelaide  hied  when  the  battle  was  o'er : 

"  Oh  whither,"  she  cried,  "  hast  thou  wandered,  my  lover, 
Or  here  dost  thou  welter  and  bleed  on  the  shore? 

"  What  voice  did  I  hear  ?  — 'twas  my  Henry  that  sighed !  " 
All  mournful  she  hastened,  nor  wandered  she  far, 

When,  bleeding  and  low,  on  the  heath  she  descried, 
By  the  light  of  the  moon,  her  poor  wounded  Hussar ! 

From  his  bosom  that  heaved,  the  last  torrent  was  stream 
ing, 

And  pale  was  his  visage,  deep  marked  with  a  scar ! 
And  dim  was  that  eye,  once  expressively  beaming, 

That  melted  in  love,  and  that  kindled  in  war ! 

How  smit  was  poor  Adelaide's  heart  at  the  sight ! 

How  bitter  she  wept  o'er  the  victim  of  war ! 
"Hast  thou   come,    my  fond    Love,   this  last   sorrowful 
night, 

To  cheer  the  lone  heart  of  your  wounded  Hussar?" 

"  Thou  shalt  live,"  she  replied,  "  Heaven's  mercy  re 
lieving 

Each  anguishing  wound,  shall  forbid  me  to  mourn ! " 
"  Ah,  no  !  the  last  pang  of  my  bosom  is  heaving ! 

No  light  of  the  morn  shall  to  Henry  return  ! 

"Thou  charmer  of  life,  ever  tender  and  true! 

Ye  babes  of  my  love,  that  await  me  afar !  "  — 
His  faltering  tongue  scarce  could  murmur  adieu, 

When  he  sunk,  in  her  arms  —  the  poor  wounded  Hussar ! 


CAMPBLL    S     POEMS.  211 

LOVE    AND    MADNESS. 

AN    ELEGY. — WRITTEN    IN    1795. 

Hark  !  from  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower  * 
The  solemn  bell  has  tolled  the  midnight  hour ! 
Roused  from  drear  visions  of  distempered  sleep, 
Poor  B k  wakes  —  in  solitude  to  weep  ! 

"  Cease,  Memory,  cease  (the  friendless  mourner  cried) 
To  probe  the  bosom  too  severely  tried  ! 
Oh  !    ever  cease,  my  pensive  thoughts,  to  stray 
Through  the  bright  fields  of  Fortune's  better  day, 
When  youthful  HOPE,  the  music  of  the  mind, 
Tuned  all  its  charms,  and  E n  was  kind  ! 

"  Yet,  can  I  cease,  while  glows  this  trembling  frame, 

In  sighs  to  speak  thy  melancholy  name  ? 

I  hear  thy  spirit  wail  in  every  storm  ! 

In  midnight  shades  I  view  thy  passing  form ! 

Pale  as  in  that  sad  hour  when  doomed  to  feel, 

Deep  in  thy  perjured  heart,  the  bloody  steel ! 

"  Demons  of  Vengeance !    ye  at  whose  command 
I  grasped  the  sword  with  more  than  woman's  hand, 
Say  ye,  did  Pity's  trembling  voice  control, 
Or  horror  damp  the  purpose  of  my  soul  r 
No  !   my  wild  heart  sat  smiling  o'er  the  plan, 
Till  Hate  fulfilled  what  baffled  Love  began  1 

"  Yes ;   let  the  clay-cold  breast  that  never  knew 
One  tender  pang  to  generous  Nature  true, 

*  \Varvvick  Castle. 


212  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Half-mingling  pity  with  the  gall  of  scorn, 
Condemn  this  heart,  that  bled  in  love  forlorn ! 

"  And  ye,  proud  fair,  whose  soul  no  gladness  warms, 
Save  Rapture's  homage  to  your  conscious  charms  ! 
Delighted  idols  of  a  gaudy  train, 
111  can  your  blunter  feelings  guess  the  pain, 
When  the  fond  faithful  heart,  inspired  to  prove 
Friendship  refined,  the  calm  delight  of  Love, 
Feels  all  its  tender  strings  with  anguish  torn, 
And  bleeds  at  perjured  Pride's  inhuman  scorn! 

"  Say,  then,  did  pitying  Heaven  condemn  the  deed, 
When  Vengeance  bade  thee,  faithless  lover  !  bleed  ? 
Long  had  I  watched  thy  dark  foreboding  brow, 
What  time  thy  bosom  scorned  its  dearest  vow ! 
Sad,  though  I  wept  the  friend,  the  lover  changed, 
Still  thy  cold  look  was  scornful  and  estranged, 
Till  from  thy  pity,  love,  and  shelter  thrown, 
I  wandered  hopeless,  friendless,  and  alone  ! 

"  Oh  !  righteous  Heaven  !    'twas  then  my  tortured  soul 

First  gave  to  wrath  unlimited  control ! 

Adieu  the  silent  look !    the  streaming  eye ! 

The  murmured  plaint !    the  deep  heart-heaving  sigh ! 

Long-slumbering  Vengeance  wakes  to  better  deeds; 

He  shrieks,  he  falls,  the  perjured  lover  bleeds ! 

Now  the  last  laugh  of  agony  is  o'er, 

And  pale  in  blood  he  sleeps,  to  wake  no  more! 

"  'Tis  done  !    the  flame  of  hate  no  longer  burns : 
Nature  relents,  but,  ah  !   too  late  returns  ! 
Why  does  my  soul  this  gush  of  fondness  feel? 
Trembling  and  faint,  I  drop  the  guilty  steel! 
Cold  on  my  heart  the  hand  of  terror  lies, 
And  shades  of  horror  close  my  languid  eyes  ! 


CAMPBELL    S     POEMS. 

"  Oh  !   'twas  a  deed  of  Murder's  deepest  grain ! 

Could  B k's  soul  so  true  to  wrath  remain? 

A  friend  long  true,  a  once  fond  lover  fell !  — 
Where  Love  was  fostered  could  not  Pity  dwell? 

"  Unhappy  youth  !   while  yon  pale  crescent  glows 
To  watch  on  silent  Nature's  deep  repose, 
Thy  sleepless  spirit,  breathing  from  the  tomb, 
Foretells  my  fate,  and  summons  me  to  come ! 
Once  more  I  see  thy  sheeted  spectre  stand, 
Roll  the  dim  eye,  and  wave  the  paly  hand  ! 

"  Soon  may  this  fluttering  spark  of  vital  flame 
Forsake  its  languid  melancholy  frame ! 
Soon  may  these  eyes  their  trembling  lustre  close, 
Welcome  the  dreamless  night  of  long  repose ! 
Soon  may  this  wo-worn  spirit  seek  the  bourt  e 
Where,  lulled  to  slumber,  Grief  forgets  to  K  oum  ! 


HALLOWED   GROUND. 

WHAT'S  hallowed  ground?    Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod, 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That's  hallowed  ground  —  where,  mourned,  and  missed, 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed:  — 
But  where's  their  memory's  mansion  ?     Is't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers ! 
No !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 


214  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 

Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound : 

The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  Heaven  ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould; 

And  will  not  cool, 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
'Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap ! 
In    .ews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom  ; 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb : 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  manland-- 

And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ?  — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind, 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right? 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws  :  — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ?  — 

A  noble  cause  ! 

Give  that?  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums !  and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  space 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  215 

The  colors  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  !  —  but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal ! 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above  ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace !  Love  !  the  cherubim  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine, 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not  — 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  ? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt, 
Tjjaat  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chant. 

The  ticking  wood- worm  mocks  thee,  man ! 
The  temples  —  creeds  themselves,  grow  wan! 
But  there's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban  — 

Its  space  is  Heaven  ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 
The  harmonious  spheres 


216  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 
By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars  !    are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death  your  worlds  obscure? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above? 

Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 
.  Of  heavenly  love  ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time ; 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

What's  hallowed  ground?     'Tis  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth !  — 
Peace  !   Independence  !   Truth  !    go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round ; 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground. 


SONG. 

WITHDRAW  not  yet  those  lips  and  fingers 
Whose  touch  to  mine  is  rapture's  spell ; 

Life's  joy  for  us  a  moment  lingers, 

And  death  seems  in  the  word  —  Farewell. 

The  hour  that  bids  us  part  and  go, 

It  sounds  not  yet,  —  oh  !  no,  no,  no  ! 


S     POEMS. 

Time,  whilst  I  gaze  upon  thy  sweetness, 
Flies  like  a  courser  nigh  the  goal ; 

To-morrow  where  shall  be  his  fleetness, 
When  thou  art  parted  from  my  soul? 

Our  hearts  shall  beat,  our  tears  shall  flow, 

But  not  together,  —  no,  no,  no  ! 


CAROLINE. 

PART    I. 

I'LL  bid  the  hyacinth  to  blow, 
I'll  teach  my  grotto  green  to  be; 

And  sing  my  true  love,  all  below 
The  holly  bower  and  myrtle  tree. 

There  all  his  wild- wood  sweets  to  bring, 
The  sweet  south  wind  shall  wander  by, 

And  with  the  music  of  his  wing 
Delight  my  rustling  canopy. 

Come  to  my  close  and  clustering  bower, 
Thou  spirit  of  a  milder  clime, 

Fresh  with  the  dews  of  fruit  and  flower, 
Of  mountain  heath,  and  moory  thyme. 

With  all  thy  rural  echoes  come, 
Sweet  comrade  of  the  rosy  day, 

Wafting  the  wild  bee's  gentle  hum, 
Or  cuckoo's  plaintive  roundelay. 
19 


218  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Where'er  thy  morning  breath  has  played, 
"Whatever  isles  of  ocean  fanned, 

Come  to  my  blossom-woven  shade, 
Thou  wandering  wind  of  fairy-land. 

For  sure,  from  some  enchanted  isle, 

Where  Heaven  and  Love  their  sabbath  hold, 

Where  pure  and  happy  spirits  smile, 
Of  beauty's  fairest,  brightest  mould : 

From  some  green  Eden  of  the  deep, 
Where  Pleasure's  sigh  alone  is  heaved, 

Where  tears  of  rapture  lovers  weep, 
Endeared,  undoubting,  undeceived; 

From  some  sweet  paradise  afar, 
Thy  music  wanders,  distant,  lost  — 

Where  Nature  lights  her  leading  star, 
And  love  is  never,  never  crossed. 

Oh,  gentle  gale  of  Eden  bowers, 
If  back  thy  rosy  feet  should  roam, 

To  revel  with  the  cloudless  Hours 
In  Nature's  more  propitious  home, 

Name  to  thy  loved  Elysian  groves, 
That  o'er  enchanted  spirits  twine, 

A  fairer  form  than  cherub  loves, 
And  let  the  name  be  CAROLINE. 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  219 


CAROLINE. 

PART    II. 

TO   THE   EVENING   STAR. 

GEM  of  the  crimson-colored  Even, 

Companion  of  retiring  day, 
Why  at  the  closing  gates  of  Heaven, 

Beloved  star,  dost  thou  delay? 

So  fair  thy  pensile  beauty  burns,  • 
When  soft  the  tear  of  twilight  flows; 

So  due  thy  plighted  love  returns, 
To  chambers  brighter  than  the  rose : 

To  Peace,  to  Pleasure,  and  to  Love, 
So  kind  a  star  thou  seem'st  to  be, 

Sure,  some  enamored  orb  above 
Descends  and  burns  to  meet  with  thee. 

Thine  is  the  breathing,  blushing  hour, 
When  all  unheavenly  passions  fly, 

Chased  by  the  soul-subduing  power 
Of  Love's  delicious  witchery. 

O  !   sacred  to  the  fall  of  day, 
Queen  of  propitious  stars,  appear, 

And  early  rise,  and  long  delay, 
When  Caroline  herself  is  here  ! 

Shine  on  her  chosen  green  resort, 

Whose  trees  the  sunward  summit  crown, 

And  wanton  flowers,  that  well  may  court 
An  angel's  feet  to  tread  them  down. 


220  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

Shine  on  her  sweetly- scented  road, 
Thou  star  of  evening's  purple  dome, 

That  lead'st  the  nightingale  abroad, 
And  guid'st  the  pilgrim  to  his  home. 

Shine,  where  my  charmer's  sweeter  breath 
Embalms  the  soft  exhaling  dew, 

Where  dying  winds  a  sigh  bequeath 
To  kiss  the  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

Where,  winnowed  by  the  gentle  air, 
Her  silken  tresses  darkly  flow, 

And  fall  upon  her  brow  so  fair, 

Like  snadows  on  the  mountain  snow. 

Thus,  ever  thus,  at  day's  decline, 
In  converse  sweet,  to  wander  far, 

O  bring  with  thee  my  Caroline, 
And  thou  shalt  be  my  Ruling  Star ! 


THE  BEECH  TREE'S  PETITION. 

O  LEAVE  this  barren  spot  to  me  ! 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 
Though  bush  or  flow' ret  never  grow 
My  dark  unwarming  shade  below; 
Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 
Of  rosy  blush,  or  yellow  hue  ! 
Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-born, 
My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn ; 
Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 
Th'  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive  • 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  221 

Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree! 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green ; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour, 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made ; 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carved  many  a  long-forgotten  name. 
Oh  !   by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound, 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  ground; 
By  all  that  Love  has  whispered  here, 
Or  Beauty  heard  with  ravished  car ; 
As  Love's  own  altar  honor  me : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 


FIELD    FLOWERS. 

YE  field  flowers  !    the  gardens  eclipse  you,  'tis  true, 
Yet,  wildings  of  Nature,  I  dote  upon  you, 

For  ye  waft  me  to  summers  of  old, 
When  the  earth  teemed  around  me  with  fairy  delight 
And  when  daisies  and  buttercups  gladdened  my  sight, 

Like  treasures  of  silver  and  gold. 

I  love  you  for  lulling  me  back  into  dreams 
Of  the  blue  Highland  mountains  and  echoing 
19* 


222  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

And  of  birchen  glades  breathing  their  balm, 
While  the  deer  was  seen  glancing  in  sunshine  remote, 
And  the  deep  mellow  crush  of  the  wood-pigeon's  note 

Made  music  that  sweetened  the  calm. 

Not  a  pastoral  song  has  a  pleasanter  tune 

Than  ye  speak  to  my  heart,  little  wildings  of  June : 

Of  old  ruinous  castles  ye  tell, 

Where  I  thought  it  delightful  your  beauties  to  find, 
When  the  magic  of  Nature  first  breathed  on  my  nv  id, 

And  your  blossoms  were  part  of  her  spell. 

Even  no  w  what  affections  the  violet  awakes ; 
What  loved  little  islands,  twice  seen  in  their  lakes, 

Can  the  wild  water-lily  restore ; 
What  landscapes  I  read  in  the  primrose's  looks, 
And  what  pictures  of  pebbled  and  minnowy  brook  * 

In  the  vetches  that  tangled  their  shore. 

Earth's  cultureless  buds,  to  my  heart  ye  were  dear, 
Ere  the  fever  of  passion,  or  ague  of  fear 

Had  scathed  my  existence's  bloom  ; 
Once  I  welcome  you  more,  in  life's  passionless  stage, 
With  the  visions  of  youth  to  revisit  my  age, 

And  I  wish  you  to  grow  on  my  tomb. 


STANZAS    TO    PAINTING. 

O  THOU  by  whose  expressive  art 
Her  perfect  image  Nature  sees 

In  union  with  the  Graces  start, 
And  sweeter  by  reflection  please  1 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  298 

In  whose  creative  hand  the  hues 
Fresh  from  yon  orient  rainbow  shine; 

I  bless  thee,  Promethean  Muse  ! 

And  call  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine! 

Possessing  more  than  vocal  power, 
Persuasive  more  than  poet's  tongue ; 

Whose  lineage,  in  a  raptured  hour, 

From  Love,  the  Sire  of  Nature,  sprung; 

Does  Hope  her  high  possession  meet  ? 

Is  joy  triumphant,  sorrow  flown  ? 
Sweet  is  the  trance,  the  tremor  sweet, 

When  all  we  love  is  all  our  own. 


But  oh  !   thou  pulse  of  pleasure  dear, 
Slow  throbbing,  cold,  I  feel  thee  part; 

Lone  absence  plants  a  pang  severe, 
Or  death  inflicts  a  keener  dart. 

Then  for  a  beam  of  joy  to  light 
In  memory's  sad  and  wakeful  eye ! 

Or  banish  from  the  noon  of  night 
Her  dreams  of  deeper  agony. 

Shall  Song  its  witching  cadence  roll  ? 

Yea,  even  the  tenderest  air  repeat, 
That  breathed  when  soul  was  knit  to  soul, 

And  heart  to  heart  responsive  beat  ? 

What  visions  rise  !    to  charm,  to  melt  ! 

The  lost,  the  loved,  the  dead  are  near ! 
9h,  hush  that  strain  too  deeply  felt ! 

And  cease  that  solace  too  severe ! 


224  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

But  thou,  serenely  silent  art ! 

By  heaven  and  love  wast  taught  to  lend 
A  milder  solace  to  the  heart, 

The  sacred  image  of  a  friend. 


All  is  not  lost !   if,  yet  possessed, 
To  me  that  sweet  memorial  shine; 

If  close  and  closer  to  my  breast 
I  hold  that  idol  all  divine. 


Or,  gazing  through  luxurious  tears, 
Melt  o'er  the  loved  departed  form, 

Till  death's  cold  bosom  half  appears 
With  Life,  and  speech,  and  spirit  warm. 

She  looks  !   she  lives  !   this  tranced  hour, 
Her  bright  eye  seems  a  purer  gem 

Than  sparkles  on  the  throne  of  power, 
Or  glory's  wealthy  diadem. 

Yes,  Genius,  yes !   thy  mimic  aid 
A  treasure  to  my  soul  has  given, 

Where  beauty's  canonized  shade 

Smiles  in  the  sainted  hues  of  heaven. 

No  spectre  forms  of  pleasure  ned, 

Thy  softening,  sweetening  tints  restore ; 

For  thou  canst  give  us  back  the  dead, 
E'en  in  the  loveliest  looks  they  wore. 

Then  blest  be  Nature's  guardian  Muse, 
Whose  hand  her  perished  grace  redeems ! 

Whose  tablet  of  a  thousand  hues 
The  mirror  of  creation  seems. 


3     POEMS 


From  Love  began  thy  high  descent ; 

And  lovers,  charmed  by  gifts  of  thine, 
Shall  bless  thee  mutely  eloquent ; 

And  call  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine ! 


LINES, 

INSCRIBED  ON  THE  MONUMENT  LATELY  FINISHED  BY  MB. 
CHANTREY,  WHICH  HAS  BEEN  ERECTED  BY  THE  WIDOW 
OP  ADMIRAL  SIR  G.  CAMPBELL,  K.  C.  B.,  TO  THE  MEMORY 
OP  HER  HUSBAND. 

To  him,  whose  loyal,  brave,  and  gentle  heart, 

Fulfilled  the  hero's  and  the  patriot's  part, — 

Whose  charity,  like  that  which  Paul  enjoined, 

Was  warm,  beneficent,  and  unconfined, — 

This  stone  is  reared :  to  public  duty  true, 

The  seaman's  friend,  the  father  of  his  crew ; 

Mild  in  reproof,  sagacious  in  command, 

He  spread  fraternal  zeal  throughout  his  band, 

And  led  each  arm  to  act,  each  heart  to  feel, 

What  British  valor  owes  to  Britain's  weal. 

These  were  his  public  virtues ;  —  but  to  trace 

His  private  life's  fair  purity  and  grace, 

To  paint  the  traits  that  drew  affection  strong 

From  friends,  an  ample  and  an  ardent  throng, 

And,  more,  to  speak  his  memory's  grateful  claim 

On  her  who  mourns  him  most,  and  bears  his  name  — 

O'ercomes  the  trembling  hand  of  widowed  grief, 

O'ercomes  the  hearty     mconscious  of  relief, 

Save  in  religion's  hV    i  and  holy  trust, 

Whilst  placing  theii   memorial  o'er  his  dust. 


2J6 


SONG, 

TO    THE    EVENING    STAK. 

STAH  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  laborer  free  ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odors  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs,  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  237 

STANZAS, 

ON   THE   BATTLE   OF   NAVARINO. 

HEARTS  of  oak  that  have  bravely  delivered  the  brave, 
And  uplifted  old  Greece  from  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
'Twas  the  helpless  to  help,  and  the  hopeless  to  save, 

That  your  thunderbolts  swept  o'er  the  brine : 
And  as  long  as  yon  sun  shall  look  down  on  the  wave 

The  light  of  your  glory  shall  shine. 


For  the  guerdon  ye  sought  with  your  bloodshed  and  toil, 
Was  it  slaves,  or  dominion,  or  rapine,  or  spoil  ? 
No  !    your  lofty  emprise  was  to  fetter  and  foil 

The  uprooter  of  Greece's  domain ! 
When  he  tore  the  last  remnant  of  food  from  her  soil, 

Till  her  famished  sank  pale  as  the  slain ! 


Yet,  Navarino's  heroes  !    does  Cristendom  breed 

The  base  hearts  that  will  question  the  fame  of  your  deed  ? 

Are  they  men  ?  —  let  ineffable  scorn  be  their  meed, 

And  oblivion  shadow  their  graves  !  — 
Are  they  women?  —  to  Turkish  serails  let  them  speed; 

And  be  mothers  of  Mussulman  slaves. 


Abettors  of  massacre  !    dare  ye  deplore 

That  the  death-shriek  is  silenced  on  Hellas's  shore  ? 

That  the  mother  aghast  sees  her  offspring  no  more 

By  the  hand  of  Infanticide  grasped  ? 
And  that  stretched  on  your  billows  distained  by  their  gora 

Missolonghi's  assassins  have  gasped  ? 


•4S&  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Prouder  scene  never  hallowed  war's  pomp  to  the  mind, 
Than  when  Christendom's  pennons  woo'd  social  the  wind, 
And  the  flower  of  her  brave  for  the  combat  combined, 

Their  watchword,  humanity's  vow  : 
Not  a  sea-boy  that  fought  in  that  cause,  but  mankind 

Owes  a,  garland  to  honor  his  brow ! 

Nor  grudge,  by  our  side,  that  to  conquer  or  fall, 
Came  the  hardy  rude  Russ,  and  the  high-mettled  Gaul : 
For  whose  was  the  genius,  that  planned  at  its  call, 

Where  the  whirlwind  of  battle  should  roll  ? 
All  were  brave  !   but  the  star  of  success  over  all 

Was  the  light  of  our  Codrington's  soul. 

That  star  of  thy  day-spring,  regenerate  Greek  ! 
Dimmed  the  Saracen's  moon,  and  struck  pallid  his  cheek : 
In  its  fast-flushing  morning  thy  Muses  shall  speak 

When  their  lore  and  their  lutes  they  reclaim : 
And  the  first  of  their  songs  from  Parnassus's  peak 

Shall  be  "  Glory  to  Codrington's  name." 


THE  MAID'S  REMONSTRANCE. 

NEVER  wedding,  ever  wooing, 
Still  a  love-lorn  heart  pursuing, 
Read  you  not  the  wrong  you're  doing 

In  my  cheek's  pale  hue  ? 
All  my  life  with  sorrow  strewing ; 

Wed,  or  cease  to  woo. 


r  o  E  M  s . 

Rivals  banished,  bosoms  plighted, 
Still  our  days  are  disunited ; 
Now  the  lamp  of  hope  is  lighted, 

Now  half  quenched  appears, 
Damped,  and  wavering,  and  benighted, 

Midst  my  sighs  and  tears. 

Charms  you  call  your  dearest  blessing, 
Lips  that  thrill  at  your  caressing, 
Eyes  a  mutual  soul  confessing, 

Soon  you'll  make  them  grow 
Dim,  and  worthless*  your  possessing, 

Not  with  age,  but  wo! 


ABSENCE. 

'Tis  not  the  loss  of  love's  assurance, 
It  is  not  doubting  what  thou  art, 

But  'tis  the  too,  too  long  endurance 
Of  absence,  that  afflicts  my  heart. 

The  fondest  thoughts  two  hearts  can  cherish, 
When  each  is  lonely  doomed  to  weep, 

Are  fruits  on  desert  isles  that  perish, 
Or  riches  buried  in  the  deep. 

What  though,  untouched  by  jealous  madness, 
Our  bosom's  peace  may  fall  to  wreck; 
20 


230  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

The  undoubting  heart,  that  breaks  with  sadness, 
Is  but  more  slowly  doomed  to  break. 

Absence !   is  not  the  soul  torn  by  it 

From  more  than  light,  or  life,  or  breath ! 

'Tis  Lethe's  gloom,  but  not  its  quiet, — 
The  pain  without  the  peace  of  death ! 


LINES, 

ON   REVISITING   A   SCOTTISH   KJVER. 

AND  call  they  this  Improvement  ?  —  to  have  changed, 

My  native  Clyde,  thy  once  romantic  shore, 

Where  Nature's  face  is  banished  and  estranged, 

And  Heaven  reflected  in  thy  wave  no  more ; 

Whose  banks,  that  sweetened  May- day's  breath  before, 

Lie  sere  and  leafless  now  in  summer's  beam, 

With  sooty  exhalations  covered  o'er ; 

And  for  the  dasied  greensward,  down  thy  stream 

Unsightly  brick-lanes  smoke,  and  clanking  engines  gleam  I 

Speak  not  to  me  of  swarms  the  scene  sustains ; 

One  heart  free  tasting  Nature's  breath  and  bloom 

Is  worth  a  thousand  slaves  to  Mammon's  gains. 

But  whither  goes  that  wealth,  and  gladdening  whom  ? 

See,  left  but  life  enough  and  breathing-room 

The  hunger  and  the  hope  of  life  to  feel, 

Yon  pale  Mechanic  bending  o'er  his  loom, 

And  Childhood's  self  as  at  Ixion's  wheel, 

From  morn  till  midnight  tasked  to  earn  its  little  meaL 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  231 

J&  this  Improvement?  —  where  the  human  breed 

Degenerate  as  they  swarm  and  overflow, 

Till  Toil  grows  cheaper  than  the  trodden  weed, 

And  man  competes  with  man,  like  foe  with  foe, 

Till  Death,  that  thins  them,  scarce  seems  public  wo  t 

Improvement !  —  smiles  it  in  the  poor  man's  eyes, 

Or  blooms  it  on  the  cheek  of  Labor  ?  —  No  — 

To  gorge  a  few  with  Trade's  precarious  prize, 

We  banish  rural  life,  and  breathe  unwholesome  skies. 

Nor  call  that  evil  slight  ;   God  has  not  given 

This  passion  to  the  heart  of  man  in  vain, 

For  Earth's  green  face,  the  untainted  air  of  Heaven, 

And  all  the  bliss  of  Nature's  rustic  reign. 

For  not  alone  our  frame  imbibes  a  stain 

From  foetid  skies ;   the  spirit's  healthy  pride 

Fades  in  their  gloom.  —  And  therefore  I  complain, 

That  thou  no  more  through  pastoral  scenes  shouldst  glide, 

My  Wallace's  own  stream,  and  once  romantic  Clyde ! 


THE  "NAME  UNKNOWN." 

IN   IMITATION   OF  K.LOPSTOCK. 

PROPHETIC  pencil !    wilt  thou  trace 
A  faithful  image  of  the  face, 

Or  wilt  thou  write  the  "Name  Unknown, 
Ordained  to  bless  my  charmed  soul, 
And  all  my  future  fate  control, 

Unrivalled  and  alone  ? 


232  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS 

Delicious  Idol  of  my  thought : 
Though  sylph  or  spirit  hath  not  taught 

My  boding  heart  thy  precious  name; 
Yet  musing  on.  my  distant  fate, 
To  charms  unseen  I  consecrate 

A  visionary  flame. 

Thy  rosy  blush,  thy  meaning  eye, 
Thy  virgin  voice  of  melody, 

Are  ever  present  to  my  heart; 
Thy  murmured  vows  shall  yet  be  mine, 
My  thrilling  hand  shall  meet  with  tnine, 

Ai.d  never,  never  part ! 

Then  fly,  my  days,  on  rapid  wing, 
Till  Love  the  viewless  treasure  bring; 

While  I,  like  conscious  Athens,  own 
A  power  in  mystic  silence  sealed, 
A  guardian  angel  unrevealed, 

And  bless  the  "  Name  Unknown  !  " 


LINES, 

ON   THE    CAMP    HILL,    NEAR   HASTINGS. 

IN  the  deep  blue  of  eve, 
Ere  the  twinkling  of  stars  had  begun, 

Or  the  lark  took  his  leave 
Of  the  skies  and  the  sweet  setting  sun, 

I  climbed  to  yon  heights, 
Where  the  Norman  encamped  him  of  old. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

With  his  bowmen  and  knights, 
And  his  banner  all  burnished  with  gold 

At  the  Conqueror's  side 
There  his  minstrelsy  sat  harp  in  hand, 

In  pavilion  wide ; 
And  they  chanted  the  deeds  of  Roland. 

Still  the  ramparted  ground 
With  a  vision  my  fancy  inspires, 

And  I  hear  the  trump  sound, 
As  it  marshalled  our  Chivalry's  sires. 

On  each  turf  of  that  mead 
Stood  the  captors  of  England's  domains, 

That  ennobled  her  breed 
And  high-mettled  the  blood  of  her  veins. 

Over  hauberk  and  helm 
As  the  sun's  setting  splendor  was  thrown, 

Thence  they  looked  o'er  a  realm  — 
And  to-morrow  beheld  it  their  own. 


FAREWELL   TO    LOVE. 

I  HAD  a  heart  that  doted   once   in   Passion's   boundless 

pain, 
And  though  the  tyrant  I  abjured,  I  could  not  break  his 

chain ; 
But  now  that  Fancy's  fire  is  quenched,    and  ne'er  can 

burn  anew, 

I've  bid  to  Love,  for  all  my  life,  adieu !    adieu  !    adieu  ! 
20* 


234  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

I've  known,  if  ever  mortal  knew,  the  spells  of  Beauty's 

thrall, 
And  if  my  song  has  told  them    not,    my   soul   has   felt 

them  all; 
But  Passion    robs    my    peace    no    more,    and    Beauty's 

witching  sway 
Is  now  to  me  a  star  that's  fall'n  —  a  dream  that's  passed 

away. 

Hail !    welcome  tide  of  life,  when  no  tumultuous  billows 

roll; 
How  wondrous  to  myself  appears  this  halcyon  calm  of 

soul ! 
The  wearied  bird  blown  o'er  the  deep  would  sooner  quit 

its  shore, 
Than  I  would  cross  the  gulf  again  that  time  has  brought 

me  o'er. 

Why  say  they   angels   feel  the   flame  ?  —  Oh,  spirits  of 

the  skies  ! 
Can   love   like   ours,    that   dotes    on    dust,   in  heavenly 

bosoms  rise  ?  — 
Ah  no  !    the  hearts   that   best   have  felt   its   power,  the 

best  can  tell, 
That  peace  on  earth   itself  begins,  when   Love  has   bid 

farewell. 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 


LINES    ON   POLAND. 

AND  have  I  lived  to  see  thee  sword  in  hand 
Uprise  again,  immortal  Polish  Land !  — 
Whose  flag  brings  more  than  chivalry  to  mind, 
And  leaves  the  tri-color  in  shade  behind  — 
A  theme  for  uninspired  lips  too  strong ; 
That  swells  my  heart  beyond  the  power  of  song ! 
Majestic  men !    whose  deeds  have  dazzled  faith, 
Ah !   yet  your  fate's  suspense  arrests  my  breath ; 
Whilst  envying  bosoms  bared  to  shot  and  steel, 
I  feel  the  more  that  fruitlessly  I  feel. 

Poles !    with  what  indignation  I  endure 
Th'  half-pitying,  servile  mouths  that  call  you  poor; 
Poor!    is  it  England  mocks  you  with  her  grief, 
Who  hates,  but  dares  not  chide,  th'  Imperial  Thief? 
France,  with  her  soul  beneath  a  Bourbon's  thrall, 
And  Germany  that  has  no  soul  at  all,  — 
States,  quailing  at  the  giant  overgrown, 
Whom  dauntless  Poland  grapples  with  alone  ! 
No,  ye  are  rich  in  fame  e'en  whilst  ye  bleed : 
We  can  not  aid  you  —  we  are  poor  indeed  ! 

In  Fate's  defiance  —  in  the  world's  great  eye, 
Poland  has  won  her  immortality; 
The  Butcher,  should  he  reach  her  bosom  now, 
Could  not  tear  Glory's  garland  from  her  brow ; 
Wreathed,  filleted,  the  victim  falls  renowned, 
And  all  her  ashes  will  be  holy  ground ! 

But  turn,  my  soul,  from  presages  so  dark : 
Great  Poland's  spirit  is  a  deathless  spark 


230  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

That's  fanned  by  Heaven  to  mock  the  Tyrant's  rage: 

She,  like  the  eagle,  will  renew  her  age, 

And  fresh  historic  plumes  of  Fame  put  on,  — 

Another  Athens  after  Marathon,  — 

Where  eloquence  shall  fulmine,  arts  refine, 

Bright  as  her  arms  that  now  in  battle  shine. 

Come  —  should  the  heavenly  shock  my  life  destroy, 

And  shut  its  flood-gates  with  excess  of  joy ; 

Come  but  the  day  when  Poland's  fight  is  won  — 

And  on  my  grave-stone  shine  the  morrow's  sun  !  — 

The  day  that  sees  Warsaw's  cathedral  glow, 

With  endless  ensigns  ravished  from  the  foe,  — 

Her  women  lifting  their  fair  hands  with  thanks, 

Her  pious  warriors  kneeling  in  their  ranks, 

The  'scutcheoned  walls  of  high  heraldic  boast, 

The  odorous  altars'  elevated  host, 

The  organ  sounding  through  the  aisle's  long  glooms, 

The  mighty  dead  seen  sculptured  o'er  their  tombs; 

(John,  Europe's  savior  —  Poniatowski's  fair 

Resemblance  —  Kosciusko's  shall  be  there;) 

The  tapered  pomp  —  the  hallelujah's  swell, 

Shall  o'er  the  soul's  devotion  cast  a  spell, 

Till  visions  cross  the  rapt  enthusiast's  glance, 

And  all  the  scene  becomes  a  waking  trance. 

Should  Fate  put  far,  far  off  that  glorious  scene, 

And  gulfs  of  havoc  interpose  between, 

Imagine  not,  ye  men  of  every  clime, 

Who  act,  or  by  your  sufferance  share  the  crime, 

Your  brother  Abel's  blood  shall  vainly  plead 

Against  the  "deep  damnation"  of  the  deed. 

Germans,  ye  view  its  horror  and  disgrace 

With  cold  phosphoric  eyes  and  phlegm  of  face. 

Is  Allemagne  profound  in  science,  lore, 

And  minstrel  art?  —  her  shame  is  but  the  more 

To  doze  and  dream  by  governments  oppressed, 

The  spirit  of  a  book- worm  in  each  breast. 

Well  can  ye  mouth  fair  Freedom's  classic  line, 


POEMS.  237 

And  talk  of  Constitutions  o'er  your  wine : 

But  all  your  vows  to  break  the  tyrant's  yoke 

Expire  in  Bacchanalian  song  and  smoke : 

H  mv*ns  !   can  no  ray  of  foresight  pierce  the  lead 

And  mystic  metaphysics  of  your  heads, 

To  show  the  self-same  grave,  Oppression  delves 

For  Poland's  rights,  is  yawning  for  yourselves ! 

See,  whilst  the  Pole,  the  vanguard  aid  of  France, 
Has  vaulted  on  his  barb  and  couched  the  lance, 
France  turns  from  her  abandoned  friends  afresh, 
And  soothes  the  Bear  that  prowls  for  patriot  flesh; 
Buys,  ignominious  purchase  !   short  repose, 
With  dying  curses  and  the  groans  of  those 
That  served,  and  loved,  and  put  in  her  their  trust ! 
Frenchmen !   the  dead  accuse  you  from  the  dust  — 
Brows  laurelled  —  bosoms  marked  with  many  a  scar 
For  France  —  that  wore  her  Legion's  noblest  star, 
Cast  dumb  reproaches,  from  the  field  of  Death, 
On  Gallic  honor:   and  this  broken  faith 
Has  robbed  you  more  of  Fame  —  the  life  of  life  — 
Than  twenty  battles  lost  in  glorious  strife ! 

And  what  of  England?  —  Is  she  steeped  so  low 

In  poverty,  crest-fall'n,  and  palsied  so, 

That  we  must  sit,  much  wroth,  but  timorous  more, 

With  Murder  knocking  at  our  neighbor's  door? 

Not  Murder  masked  and  cloaked,  with  hidden  knife, 

Whose  owner  owes  the  gallows  life  for  life ; 

But  Public  Murder!  —  that  with  pomp  and  gaud, 

And  royal  scorn  of  Justice,  walks  abroad 

To  wring  more  tears  and  blood  than  e'er  were  wning 

By  all  the  culprits  Justice  ever  hung! 

We  read  the  diademmed  Assassin's  vaunt, 

And  wince,  and  wish  we  had  not  hearts  to  pant 

With  useless  indignation  —  sigh,  and  frown, 

But  have  not  hearts  to  throw  the  gauntlet  down. 


238  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

If  but  a  doubt  hung  o'er  the  grounds  of  fray, 
Or  trivial  rapine  stopped  the  world's  highway; 
Were  this  some  common  strife  of  States  embroiled; 
Britannia  on  the  spoiler  and  the  spoiled  • 

Might  calmly  look,  and,  asking  time  to  breathe, 
Still  honorably  wear  his  olive  wreath. 
But  this  is  Darkness  combatting  with  Light : 
Earth's  adverse  Principles  for  empire  fight  : 
Oppression,  that  has  belted  half  the  globe, 
Par  as  his  knout  could  reach  or  dagger  probe, 
Holds  reeking  o'er  our  brother-freemen  slain 
That  dagger  —  shakes  it  at  us  in  disdain; 
Talks  big  to  Freedom's  States  of  Poland's  thrall, 
And,  trampling  one,  contemns  them  one  and  all. 

My  country  !    colors  not  thy  once  proud  brow 
At  this  affront  ?  —  Hast  thou  not  fleets  enow 
With  Glory's  streamer,  lofty  as  the  lark, 
Gay  fluttering  o'er  each  thunder- bearing  bark, 
To  warm  the  insulter's  seas  with  barbarous  blood, 
And  interdict  his  flag  from  Ocean's  flood? 
Ev'n  now  far  off  the  sea-cliff,  where  I  sing, 
I  see,  my  Country  and  my  Patriot  King  ! 
Your  ensign  glad  the  deep.     Becalmed  and  slow 
A  war-ship  rides ;   while  Heaven's  prismatic  bow, 
Uprisen  behind  her  on  th'  horizon's  base, 
Shines  flushing  through  the  tackle,  shrouds,  and 
And  wraps  her  giant  form  in  one  majestic  blaze. 
My  soul  accepts  the  omen ;    Fancy's  eye 
Has  sometimes  a  veracious  augury : 
The  Rainbow  types  Heaven's  promise  to  my  sight; 
The  Ship,  Britannia's  interposing  might ! 

But  if  there  should  be  none  to  aid  you,  Poles, 
Ye'll  but  to  prouder  pitch  wind  up  your  souls, 
Above  example,  pity,  praise,  or  blame, 
To  sow  and  reap  a  boundless  field  of  Fame. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  239 

Ask  aid  no  more  from  Nations  that  forget 

Your  championship  —  old  Europe's  mighty  debt. 

Though  Poland  (Lazarus-like)  has  burst  the  gloom, 

She  rises  not  a  beggar  from  the  tomb : 

In  Fortune's  frown,  on  Danger's  giddiest  brink, 

Despair  and  Poland's  name  must  never  link. 

All  ills  have  bounds  —  plague,  whirlwind,  fire,  and  flood : 

Ev'n  Power  can  spill  but  bounded  sums  of  blood. 

States,  caring  not  what  Freedom's  price  may  be, 

May  late  or  soon,  but  must  at  last  be  free ; 

For  body-killing  tyrants  can  not  kill 

The  public  soul  —  th'  hereditary  will 

That,  downward  as  from  sire  to  son  it  goes, 

By  shifting  bosoms  more  intensely  glows : 

Its  heir-loom  is  the  heart,  and  slaughtered  men 

Fight  fiercer  in  their  orphans  o'er  again. 

Poland  recasts  —  though  rich  in  heroes  old 

Her  men  in  more  and  more  heroic  mould : 
Her  eagle  ensign  best  among  mankind 
Becomes,  and  types  her  eagle -strength  of  mind  : 
Her  praise  upon  my  faltering  lips  expires : 
Resume  it,  younger  bards,  and  nobler  lyres  ! 


MARGARET  AND   DORA. 

MARGARET'S  beauteous  —  Grecian  arts 
Ne'er  drew  form  completer, 
Yet  why,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
Hold  I  Dora's  sweeter? 


240  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Dora's  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
Pass  all  painting's  reach; 
Ring-dove's  notes  are  discord  to 
The  music  of  her  speech. 

Artists!   Margaret's  smile  receive, 
And  on  canvass  show  it ; 
But  for  perfect  worship  leave 
Dora  to  her  poet. 


A  THOUGHT  SUGGESTED  BY  THE 
NEW  YEAH. 

THE  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 

Our  life's  succeeding  stages ; 
A  day  to  childhood  seems  a  year, 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth, 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders, 
Steals,  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 

Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But  as  the  care-worn  cheek  grows  wan, 

And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 
Ye  stars,  that  measure  life  to  man, 

Why  seem  your  courses  quicker? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and  breath, 

And  life  itself,  is  vapid, 
Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls  of  death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid? 


POEMS.  241 

It  may  be  strange  —  yet  who  would  change, 

Time's  course  to  slower  speeding; 
When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone, 

And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding  ? 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength 

Indemnifying  fleetness ; 
And  those  of  Youth,  a  seeming  length, 

Proportioned  to  their  sweetness. 


SONG. 

How  delicious  is  the  wjaming 
Of  a  kiss  at  Love's  beginning, 
When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there's  no  untying  ! 

Yet,  remember,  'midst  your  wooing, 
Love  has  bliss,  but  Love  has  ruing; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle, 
Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  he  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries, 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries ; 
Longest  stays,  when  sorest  chidden; 
Laughs  and  flies,  when  pressed  and  bidden, 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly, 
Bind  its  odor  to  the  lily, 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver, 
Then  bind  Love  to  last  for  everJ 
21 


242  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Love's  a  fire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel ; 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and  captured, 

Only  free,  he  soars  enraptured. 

Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging, 
Or  the  ring-dove's  neck  from  changing? 
No  !  nor  fettered  Love  from  dying, 
In  the  knot  there's  no  untying. 


THE  POWER  OF  RUSSIA. 

So  all  this  .gallant  blood  has  gushed  in  vain  ! 
And  Poland  by  the  Northern  Condor's  beak 
And  talons  torn,  lies  prostrated  again. 
O,  British  patriots,  lhat  were  wont  to  speak 
Once  loudly  on  this  theme,  now  hushed  or  meek  ! 
O,  heartless  men  of  Europe  —  Goth  and  Gaul 
Cold,  adder- deaf  to  Poland's  dying  shriek  ;  — 
That  saw  the  world's  last  land  of  heroes  fall  — 
The  brand  of  burning  shame  is  on  you  all  —  all  —  all ! 

But  this  is  not  the  drama's  closing  act ! 
Its  tragic  curtain  must  uprise  anew. 
Nations,  mute  accessories  to  the  fact ! 
riiat  Upas-tree  of  power,  whose  fostering  dew 
Was  Polish  blood,  has  yet  to  cast  o'er  you 
The  lengthening  shadow  of  its  head  elate  — 
A  deadly  shadow,  darkening  Nature's  hue. 
To  all  that's  hallowed,  righteous,  pure,  and  great, 
Wo !  wo !  when  they  are  reached  by  Russia's  withering 
hate. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  243 

Russia,  that  on  his  throne  of  adamant, 
Consults  what  nation's  breast  shall  next  be  gored : 
He  on  Polonia's  Golgotha  will  plant 
His  standard  fresh;    and,  horde  succeeding  horde, 
On  patriot  tomb-stones  he  will  whet  the  sword, 
For  more  stupendous  slaughters  of  the  free. 
Then  Europe's  realms,  when  their  best  blood  is  poured, 
Shall  miss  thee,  Poland !    as  they  bend  the  knee, 
A-ll  —  all  in  grief,  but  none  in  glory  likening  thee. 

Why  smote  ye  not  the  Giant  whilst  he  reeled! 
O,  fair  occasion,  gone  forever  by ! 
To  have  locked  his  lances  in  their  northern  field, 
Innocuous  as  the  phantom  chivalry 
That  flames  and  hurtles  from  yon  boreal  sky ! 
Now,  wave  thy  pennon,  Russia,  o'er  the  land 
Once  Poland ;   build  thy  bristling  castles  high ; 
Dig  dungeons  deep  ;   for  Poland's  wrested  brand 
Is  now  a  weapon  new  to  widen  thy  command  — 

An  awful  width  !    Norwegian  woods  shall  build 
His  fleets ;   the  Swede  his  vassal,  and  the  Dane ; 
.  The  glebe  of  fifty  kingdoms  shall  be  tilled 
To  feed  his  dazzling,  desolating  train, 
Camped  sumless,  'twixt  the  Black  and  Baltic  main 
Brute  hosts,  I  own ;   but  Sparta  could  not  write, 
And  Rome,  half-barbarous,  bound  Achaia's  chain : 
So  Russia's  spirit,  midst  Sclavonic  night, 
Burns  with  a  fire  more  dread  than  all  your  polished  light 

But  Russia's  limbs  (so  blinded  statesmen  say") 
Are  crude,  and  too  colossal  to  cohere. 
O,  lamentable  weakness !    reckoning  weak 
The  stripling  Titan,  strengthening  year  by  year. 
What  impliment  lacks  he  for  war's  career, 
That  grows  on  earth,  or  in  its  floods  and  mines, 
(Eighth  sharer  of  the  inhabitable  sphere) 


244  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Whom  Persia  bows  to,  China  ill  confines, 
AJid  India's  homage  waits,  when  Albion's  star  declines? 

But  time  will  teach  the  Iluss,  even  conquering  War 
Has  handmaid  arts  :    ay,  ay,  the  Russ  will  woo 
All  sciences  that  speed  Bellona's  car, 
All  murder's  tactic  arts,  and  win  them  too ; 
But  never  holier  Muses  shall  imbue 
His  breast,  that's  made  of  nature's  basest  clay : 
The  sabre,  knout,  and  dungeon's  vapor  blue 
His  laws  and  ethics  :   far  from  him  away 
Are  all  the  lovely  Nine,  that  breathe  but  Freedom's  day. 

Say,  even  his  serfs,  half-humanized,  should  learn 
Their  human  rights,  —  will  Mars  put  out  his  flame 
In  Russian  bosoms?   no,  he'll  bid  them  burn 
A  thousand  years  for  nought  but  martial  fame, 
Take  Romans :  —  yet  forgive  me,  Roman  name  ! 
Rome  could  impart  what  Russia  never  can ; 
Proud  civic  rights  to  salve  submission's  shame. 
Our  strife  is  coming;   but  in  Freedom's  van 
The  Polish  eagle's  fall  is  big  with  fate  to  man. 

Proud  bird  of  old !    Mohammed's  moon  recoiled 
Before  thy  swoop  :   had  we  been  timely  bold, 
That  swoop,  still  free,  had  stunned  the  Russ,  and  foiled 
Earth's  new  oppressors,  as  it  foiled  her  old. 
Now  thy  majestic  eyes  are  shut  and  cold : 
And  colder  still  Polonia's  children  find 
The  sympathetic  hands,  that  we  outhold. 
But,  Poles,  when  we  are  gone,  the  world  will  mind, 
Ye  bore  the  brunt  of  fate,  and  bled  for  humankind. 

So  hallowedly  have  ye  fulfilled  your  part, 
My  pride  repudiates  even  the  sigh  that  blends 
With  Poland's  name  —  name  written  on  my  heart, 
My  heroes,  my  grief-consecrated  friends ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  245 

Your  sorrow,  in  nobility,  transcends 
Your  conqueror's  joy :  his  cheek  may  blush ;  but  shame 
Can  tinge  not  yours,  though  exile's  tear  descends ; 
Nor  would  ye  change  your  conscience,  cause,  and  name, 
For  his,  with  all  his  wealth,  and  all  his  felon  fame. 

Thee,  Niemciewitz,  whose  song  of  stirring  power 
The  Czar  forbids  to  sound  in  Polish  lands; 
Thee,  Czartoryski,  in  thy  banished  bower, 
The  patricide,  who  in  thy  palace  stands, 
May  envy;   proudly  may  Polonia's  bands 
Throw  down  their  swords  at  Europe's  feet  in  scorn, 
Saying  —  "  Russia  from  the  metal  of  these  brands 
Shall  forge  the  fetters  of  your  sons  unborn ; 
Owr  setting  star  is  your  misfortunes'  rising  morn." 


LINES 

ON   LEAVING   A   SCENE   IN   BAVARIA. 

ADIEU  the  woods  and  water's  side, 
Imperial  Danube's  rich  domain  ! 

Adieu  the  grotto,  wild  and  wide, 
The  rocks  abrupt,  and  grassy  plain  ! 
For  pallid  Autumn  once  again 

Hath  swelled  each  torrent  of  the  hill ; 
Her  clouds  collect,  her  shadows  sail, 
And  watery  winds  that  sweep  the  vale, 

Grow  loud  and  louder  still. 

But  not  the  storm,  dethroning  fast 
Yon  monarch  oak  of  massy  pile 
21* 


246  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Nor  river  roaring  to  the  blast 
Around  its  dark  and  desert  isle ; 
Nor  church-bell  tolling  to  beguile 

The  cloud-born  thunder  passing  by, 
Can  sound  in  discord  to  my  soul : 
Roll  on,  ye  mighty  waters,  roll ! 

And  rage,  thou  darkened  sky ! 

Thy  blossoms  now  no  longer  bright; 

Thy  withered  woods  no  longer  green; 
Yet,  Eldurn  shore,  with  dark  delight 

I  visit  thy  unlovely  scene  ! 

For  many  a  sunset  hour  serene 
My  steps  have  trod  thy  mellow  dew; 

When  his  green  light  the  glow-worm  gave, 

When  Cynthia  from  the  distant  wave 
Her  twilight  anchor  drew,  — 

And  ploughed,  as  with  a  swelling  sail, 

The  billowy  clouds  ant!  starry  sea ; 
Then  while  thy  hermit  nightingale 

Sang  on  his  fragrant  apple-tree,— 

Romantic,  solitary,  free, 
The  visitant  of  Eldurn's  shore, 

On  such  a  moonlight  mountain  strayed, 

As  echoed  to  the  music  made 
By  Druid  harps  of  yore. 

Around  thy  savage  hills  of  oak, 

Around  thy  waters  bright  and  blue, 

No  hunter's  horn  the  silence  broke, 
No  dying  shriek  thine  echo  knew; 
But  safe,  sweet  Eldurn  woods,  to  you 

The  wounded  wild  deer  ever  ran, 

Whose  myrtle  bound  their  grassy  cave, 
Whose  very  rocks  a  shelter  gave 

Prom  blood-pursuing  man. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  247 

Oh  heart  effusions,  that  arose 

From  nightly  wanderings  cherished  here; 
To  him  who  flies  from  many  woes, 

Even  homeless  deserts  can  be  dear ! 

The  last  and  solitary  cheer 
Of  those  that  own  no  earthly  home, 

Say — is  it  not,  ye  banished  race, 

In  such  a  loved  and  lonely  place 
Companionless  to  roam  ? 

Yes  !    I  have  loved  thy  wild  abode, 

Unknown,  unploughed,  untrodden  shore; 
Where  scarce  the  woodman  finds  a  road, 

And  scarce  the  fisher  plies  an  oar ; 

For  man's  neglect  I  love  thee  more ; 
That  art  nor  avarice  intrude 

To  tame  thy  torrent's  thunder- shock, 

Or  prune  thy  vintage  of  the  rock 
Magnificently  rude. 

Unheeded  spreads  thy  blossomed  bud 

Its  milky  bosom  to  the  bee ; 
Unheeded  falls  along  the  flood 

Thy  desolate  and  aged  tree. 

Forsaken  scene,  how  like  to  thee 
The  fate  of  unbefriended  Worth  ! 

Like  thine  her  fruit  dishonored  falls  ; 

Like  thee  in  solitude  she  calls 
A  thousand  treasures  forth. 

Oh  !    silent  spirit  of  the  place, 

If,  lingering  with  the  ruined  year, 
Thy  hoary  form  and  awful  face 

I  yet  might  watch  and  worship  here  ! 

Thy  storm  were  music  to  mine  ear, 
Thy  wildest  walk  a  shelter  given 

Sublimer  thoughts  on  earth  to  find, 


248  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

And  share,  -with,  no  unhallowed  mind, 
The  majesty  of  heaven. 

"What  though  the  bosom  friends  of  Fate,- 
Prosperity's  unweaned  brood,  — 

Thy  consolations  can  not  rate, 
O,  self-dependent  Solitude! 
Yet  with  a  spirit  unsubdued, 

Though  darkened  by  the  clouds  of  Care, 
To  worship  thy  congenial  gloom, 
A  pilgrim  to  the  Prophet's  tomb, 

The  Friendless  shall  repair. 

tin  him  the  world  hath  never  smiled 
Or  looked  but  with  accusing  eye ;  — 

All-silent  goddess  of  the  wild, 

To  thee  that  misanthrope  shall  fly  ! 
I  hear  his  deep  soliloquy, 

I  mark  his  proud  but  ravaged  form, 
As  stern  he  wraps  his  mantle  round, 
And  bids,  on  winter's  bleakest  ground, 

Defiance  to  the  storm. 

Peace  to  his  banished  heart,  at  last, 
In  thy  dominions  shall  descend, 

And,  strong  as  beech-wood  in  the  blast, 
His  spirit  shall  refuse  to  bend ; 
Enduring  life  without  a  friend, 

The  world  and  falsehood  left  behind, 
Thy  votary  shall  bear  elate, 
(Triumphant  o'er  opposing  Fate,) 

His  dark  inspired  mind. 

But  dost  thou,  Folly,  mock  the  Muse 
A  wanderer's  mountain  walk  to  sing, 

Who  shuns  a  warring  world,  nor  woos 
The  vulture  cover  of  its  wing  ? 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  249 

Then  fly,  thou  cowering,  shivering  thing, 
Back  to  the  fostering  world  beguiled, 

To  waste  in  self-consuming  strife 

The  loveless  brotherhood  of  life, 
Reviling  and  reviled ! 

Away,  thou  lover  of  the  race 

That  hither  chased  yon  weeping  deer! 
If  Nature's  all  majestic  face 

More  pitiless  than  man's  appear ; 

Or  if  the  wild  winds  seem  more  drear 
Than  man's  cold  charities  below, 

Behold  around  his  peopled  plains, 

Where'er  the  social  savage  reigns, 
Exuberance  of  wo ! 

His  art  and  honors  wouldst  thou  seek 
Embossed  on  grandeur's  giant  walls? 

Or  hear  his  moral  thunders  speak 
Where  senates  light  their  airy  halls, 
Where  man  his  brother  man  enthralls ; 

Or  sends  his  whirlwind  warrants  forth 
To  rouse  the  slumbering  fiends  of  war, 
To  dye  the  blood-warm  waves  afar, 

And  desolate  the  earth? 

From  clime  to  clime  pursue  the  scene, 
And  mark  in  all  thy  spacious  way, 

Where'er  the  tyrant  man  has  been, 

There  Peace,  the  cherub,  can  not  stay; 
In  wilds  and  woodlands  far  away 

She  builds  her  solitary  bower, 
Where  only  anchorites  have  trod, 
Or  friendless  men,  to  worship  God, 

Have  wandered  for  an  hour. 

In  such  a  far  forsaken  vale,  — 

And  such,  sweet  Eldurn  vale,  is  thine,  - 


250  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Afflicted  nature  shall  inhale 

Heaven-borrowed  thoughts  and  joys  divine; 

No  longer  wish,  no  more  repine 
For  man's  neglect  or  woman's  scorn ;  — 

Then  wed  thee  to  an  exile's  lot, 

For  if  the  world  hath  loved  thee  not, 
Its  absence  :nav  be  borne. 


THE    DEATH-BOAT    OF    HELIGOLAND. 

CAN  restlessness  reach  the  cold  sepulchred  head  ?  — 
Ay,   the    quick   have    their    sleep-walkers,    so    have    the 

dead. 
There  are  brains,  though  they   moulder,    that   dream,   in 

the  tomb, 

And  that  maddening  forehear  the  last  trumpet  of  doom, 
Till  their  corses  start  sheeted  to  revel  on  earth, 
Making  horror  more  deep  by  the  semblance  of  mirth  : 
By  the  glare  of  new-lighted  volcanoes  they  dance, 
Or  at  mid-sea  appall  the  chill  mariner's  glance. 
Such,  I  wot,  was  the  band  of  cadaverous  smile 
Seen  ploughing  the  night-surge  of  Heligo's  isle. 

The  foam  of  the  Baltic  had  sparkled  like  fire, 
And  the  red  moon  looked  down  with  an  aspect  of  ire ; 
But  her  beams  on  a  sudden  grew  sick-like  and  gray, 
And  the  mews  that  had  slept  clanged    and   shrieked  far 

away  — 

And  the  buoys  and  the  beacons  extinguished  their  light, 
As  the  boat  of  the  stony-eyed  dead  came  in  sight, 
High  bounding  from  billow  to  billow;    each  form 
Had  its  shroud  like  a  plaid  flying  loose  to  the  storm  ; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  251 

With  an  oar  in  each  pulseless  and  icy-cold  hand, 
Fast  they  ploughed,  by  the  lee-shore  of  Heligoland, 
Such  breakers  as  boat  of  the  living  ne'er  crossed ; 
Now  surf-sunk  for  minutes  again  they  uptossed, 
And  with  livid  lips  shouted  reply  o'er  the  flood 
To  the  challenging  watchman  that  curdled  his  blood  — 
"We  are  dead  —  we  are  bound  from   our  graves  in  tho 

west, 
First   to  Hecla,    and   then   to  -  Unmeet    was   the 

rest 

For  man's  ear.     The  old  abbey  bell  thundered  its  clang, 
And  their  eyes    gleamed   with   phosphorous   light    as   it 

rang  : 
Ere    they   vanished,    they    stopped,    and    gazed    silently 

grim, 
Till  the  eye  could  define  them,  garb,  feature,  and  limb. 

Now  who  were  those  roamers  ?  —  of  gallows  or  wheel 
Bore  they  marks,  or  the  mangling  anatomist's  steel? 
No  !  —  by  magistrates'    chains    'mid   their    grave-clothes 

you  saw, 

They  were  felons  too  proud  to  have  perished  by  law; 
But  a  riband  that  hung  where  a  rope  should  have  been, 
'Twas  the  badge  of  their  faction,  its  hue  was  not  green, 
Showed  them  men  who  had  trampled  and  tortured   and 

driven 

To  rebellion  the  fairest  Isle  breathed  on  by  Heaven,  — 
Men  whose  heirs  would  yet  finish  the  tyrannous  task, 
If  the  Truth  and  the  Time  had  not  dragged  off  their 

mask. 

They  parted  —  but  not  till  the  sight  might  discern 
A  'scutcheon  distinct  at  their  pinnace's  stern, 
Where  letters,  emblazoned  in  blood-colored  flame, 
Named   their   faction  — I   blot    not    my   page    with   its 

name. 


252  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS 


SONG. 

WHEN  LOVE  came  first  to  Earth,  the  SPRING 
Spread  rose-beds  to  receive  him, 

And  back  he  vowed  his  flight  he'd  wing 
To  Heaven,  if  she  should  leave  him  — 

But  SPRING  departing,  saw  his  faith 
Pledged  to  the  next  new-comer  — 

He  revelled  in  the  warmer  breath 
And  richer  bowers  of  SUMMER. 

Then  sportive  AUTUMN  claimed  by  rights 

An  Archer  for  her  lover, 
And  ev'n  in  WINTER'S  dark  cold  nights 

A  charm  he  could  discover. 

Her  routs  and  balls,  a:hd  fireside  joy, 
For  this  time  were  his  reasons  — 

In  short,  Young  Love's  a  gallant  boy, 
That  likes  all  times  and  seasons. 


SONG. 

^ 
EARL  MARCH  looked  on  his  dying  child, 

And  smit  with  grief  to  view  her  — 
The  youth,  he  cried,  whom  I  exiled, 

Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her. 


s    POEMS.  253 

She's  at  the  window  many  an  hour 

His  coming  to  discover: 
And  he  looked  up  to  Ellen's  bower, 

And  she  looked  on  her  lover  — 

But  ah !  so  pale,  he  knew  her  not, 

Though  her  smile  on  him  was  dwelling, 

And  am  I  then  forgot  —  forgot?  — 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs, 

Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes ; 
Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those  ey«i 

To  lift  their  silken  lashes. 


SONG. 

WHEN  Napoleon  was  flying 
From  the  field  of  Waterloo, 

A  British  soldier  dying 

To  his  brother  bade  adieu ! 

"  And  take,"  he  said,  "  this  token 
To  the  maid  that  owns  my  faith, 

With  the  words  that  I  have  spoken 
In  affection's  latest  breath." 

Sore  mourned  the  brother's  heart, 
When  the  youth  beside  him  fell ; 

But  the  trumpet  warned  to  part, 
And  they  took  a  sad  farewell. 


254  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

There  was  many  a  friend  to  lose  him, 
For  that  gallant  soldier  sighed ; 

But  the  maiden  of  his  bosom 
"Wept  when  all  their  tears  were  dried. 


LINES    TO    JULIA    M . 

SENT  WITH  A  COPY  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  POEMS. 

SINCE  there  is  magic  in  your  look, 
And  in  your  voice  a  witching  charm, 
As  all  our  hearts  consenting  tell, 
Enchantress !  smile  upon  my  book, 
And  guard  its  lays  from  hate  and  harm 
By  Beauty's  most  resistless  spell. 

The  sunny  dew-drop  of  thy  praise, 
Young  day-star  of  the  rising  time, 
Shall  with  its  odoriferous  morn 
Refresh  my  sere  and  withered  bays. 
Smile,  and  I  will  believe  my  rhyme 
Shall  please  the  beautiful  unborn. 

Go  forth,  my  pictured  thoughts,  and  rise 
In  traits  and  tints  of  sweeter  tone, 
When  Julia's  glance  is  o'er  ye  flung ; 
Glow,  gladden,  linger  in  her  eyes, 
And  catch  a  magic  not  your  own, 
Read  by  the  music  of  her  tongue. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  255 


DRINKING    SONG    OF    MUNICH. 

SWEET  Iser  !   were  thy  sunny  realm 

And  flowery  gardens  mine, 
Thy  waters  I  would  shade  with  elm 

To  prop  the  tender  vine ; 
My  golden  flagons  I  would  fill 
With  rosy  draughts  from  every  hill; 

And  under  every  myrtle  bower, 
My  gay  companions  should  prolong 
The  laugh,  the  revel,  and  the  song, 

To  many  an  idle  hour. 

Like  rivers  crimsoned  with  the  beam 

Of  yonder  planet  bright, 
Our  balmy  cups  should  ever  stream 

Profusion  of  delight ; 
No  care  should  touch  the  mellow  heart, 
And  sad  or  sober  none  depart ; 

For  wine  can  triumph  over  wo, 
And  Love  and  Bacchus,  brother  powers, 
Could  build  in  Iser's  sunny  bowers 

A  paradise  below! 


256  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

LINES, 

ON   THE    DEPARTURE  OF  EMIGRANTS    FOR   NEW   SOUTH   WALES. 

ON  England's  shore  I  saw  a  pensive  band, 

With  sails  unfurled  for  earth's  remotest  strand, 

Like  children  parting  from  a  mother,  shed 

Tears  for  the  home  that  could  not  yield  them  bread; 

Grief  marked  each  face  receding  from  the  view, 

'Twas  grief  to  nature  honorably  'true. 

And  long,  poor  wanderers  o'er  the  ecliptic  deep, 

The  song  that  names  but  home  shall  make  you  weep; 

Oft  shall  ye  fold  your  flocks  by  stars  above 

In  that  far  world,  and  miss  the  stars  ye  love  ; 

Oft  when  its  tuneless  birds  scream  round  forlorn, 

Regret  the  lark  that  gladdens  England's  morn, 

And,  giving  England's  names  to  distant  scenes, 

Lament  that  earth's  extension  intervenes. 


But  cloud  not  yet  too  long,  industrious  train, 

Your  solid  good  with  sorrow  nursed  in  vain; 

For  has  the  heart  no  interest  yet  as  bland 

As  that  which  binds  us  to  our  native  land  ? 

The  deep-drawn  wish,  when  children  crown  our  hearth, 

To  hear  the  cherub-chorus  of  their  mirth, 

Undamped  by  dread  that  want  may  e'er  unhouse, 

Or  servile  misery  knit  those  smiling  brows. 

The  pride  to  rear  an  independent  shed, 

And  give  the  lips  we  love  unborrowed  bread : 

To  see  a  world,  from  shadowy  forests  won, 

In  youthful  beauty  wedded  to  the  sun; 

To  skirt  our  home  with  harvests  widely  sown, 

And  call  the  blooming  landscape  all  our  own, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  257 

Our  children's  heritage,  in  prospect  long. 
These  axe  the  hopes,  high-minded  hopes  and  strong, 
That  beckon  England's  wanderers  o'er  the  brine, 
To  realms  where  foreign  constellations  shine ; 
"Where  streams  from  undiscovered  fountains  roll, 
And  winds  shall  fan  them  from  th'  Antarctic  pole. 
And  what  though  doomed  to  shores  so  far  apart 
From  England's  home,  that  ev'n  the  homesick  heart 
Quails,  thinking,  ere  that  gulf  can  be  recrossed, 
How  large  a  space  of  fleeting  life  is  lost ! 
Yet  there,  by  time,  their  bosoms  shall  be  changed, 
And  strangers  once  shall  cease  to  sigh  estranged, 
But  jocund  in  the  year's  long  stmshine  roam, 
That  yields  their  sicklo  twice  its  harvest  home. 

There,  marking  o'er  his  farm's  expanding  ring 

New  fleeces  whiten  and  new  fruits  upspring, 

The  gray-haired  swain,  his  grandchild  sporting  round, 

Shall  walk  at  eve  his  little  empire's  bound, 

Embla/ed  with  ruby  vintage,  ripening  corn, 

And  verdant  rampart  of  acacian  thorn, 

While,  mingling  with  the  scent  his  pipe  exhales, 

The  orange-grove's  and  tig-tree's  breath  prevails ; 

Survey  with  pride  beyond  a  monarch's  spoil, 

His  honest  arm's  own  subjugated  soil; 

And  summing  all  the  blessings  God  has  given, 

Put  up  his  patriarchal  prayer  to  Heaven, 

That  when  his  bones  shall  here  repose  in  peace, 

The  scions  of  his  love  may  still  increase, 

And  o'er  a  land  where  life  has  ample  room, 

In  health  and  plenty  innocently  bloom. 

Delightful  land,  in  wildness  even  benign, 
The  glorious  past  is  ours,  the  future  thine  ! 
As  in  a  cradled  Hercules,  we  trace 
The  lines  of  empire  in  thine  infant  face. 

22* 


258  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

What  nations  in  thy  wide  horizon's  span 

Shall  teem  on  tracts  untrodden  yet  by  man  ! 

What  spacious  cities  with  their  spires  shall  gleam, 

Where  now  the  panther  laps  a  lonely  stream, 

And  all  but  brute  or  reptile  life  is  dumb  ! 

Land  of  the  free  !    thy  kingdom  is  to  come, 

Of  states,  with  laws  from  Gothic  bondage  burst, 

And  creeds  by  chartered  priesthoods  unaccursed  : 

Of  navies,  hoisting  their  emblazoned  flags, 

Where  shipless  seas  now  wash  unbeaconed  crags ; 

Of  hosts  reviewed  in  dazzling  files-  and  squares, 

Their  pennoned  trumpets  breathing  native  airs,  — 

For  minstrels  thou  shalt  have  of  native  fire, 

And  maids  to  sing  the  songs  themselves  inspire  :  — 

Our  very  speech,  methinks,  in  after  time, 

Shall  catch  the  Ionian  blandness  of  thy  clime ; 

And  whilst  the  light  and  luxury  of  thy  skies 

Give  brighter  smiles  to  beauteous  woman's  eyes, 

The  Arts,  whose  soul  is  love,  shall  all  spontaneous  rise. 

TJntracked  in  deserts  lies  the  marble  mine, 

Undug  the  ore  that  midst  thy  roofs  shall  shine ; 

Unborn  the  hands  —  but  born  they  are  to  be  — 

Pair  Australasia,  that  shall  give  to  thee 

Proud  temple-domes,  with  galleries  winding. high. 

So  vast  in  space,  so  just  in  symmetry, 

They  widen  to  the  contemplating  eye, 

With  colonnaded  aisles  in  long  array, 

And  windows  that  enrich  the  flood  of  day 

O'er  tesselated  pavements,  pictures  fair, 

And  niched  statues  breathing  golden  air. 

Nor  there,  whilst  all  that's  seen  bids  Fancy  swell, 

Shall  Music's  voice  refuse  to  seal  the  spell; 

But  choral  hymns  shall  wake  enchantment  round, 

And  organs  yield  their  tempests  of  sweet  sound. 

Meanwhile,  ere  Arts  triumphant  reach  their  goal, 
How  blest  the  years  of  pastoral  life  shall  roll ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  259 

Even  should  some  wayward  hour  the  settler's  mind 

Brood  sad  on  scenes  forever  left  behind, 

Yet  not  a  pang  that  England's  name  imparts, 

Shall  touch  a  fibre  of  his  children's  hearts ; 

Bound  to  that  native  land  by  nature's  bond, 

Full  little  shall  their  wishes  rove  beyond 

Its  mountains  blue,  and  melon-skirted  streams, 

Since  childhood  loved  and  dreamed  of  in  their  dreams. 

How  many  a  name,  to  us  uncouthly  wild, 

Shall  thrill  that  region's  patriotic  child, 

And  bring  as  sweet  thoughts  o'er  his  bosom's  chords, 

As  aught  that's  named  in  song  to  us  affords  ! 

Dear  shall  that  river's  margin  be  to  him, 

Where  sportive  first  he  bathed  his  boyish  limb, 

Or  petted  birds,  still  brighter  than  their  bowers, 

Or  twined  his  tame  young  kangaroo  with  flowers. 

But  more  magnetic  yet  to  memory 

Shall  be  the  sacred  spot,  still  blooming  nigh, 

The  bower  of  love,  where  first  his  bosom  burned, 

And  smiling  passion  saw  its  smile  returned. 

Go  forth  and  prosper  then,  emprising  band : 

May  He,  who  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 

The  ocean  holds,  and  rules  the  whirlwind's  sweep, 

Assuage  its  wrath,  and  guide  you  on  the  deep  ! 


LINES 

ON   REVISITING   CATIICAKT. 


OH  !   scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  dear  to  my  heart, 
Ye  green  waving  woods  on  the  margin  of  Cart, 
How  blest  in  the  morning  of  life  I  have  strayed, 
By  the  stream  of  the  vale  and  the  grass-covered  glade ! 


260  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Then,  then  every  rapture  was  young  and  sincere, 
Ere  the  sunshine  of  bliss  was  bedimmed  by  a  tear, 
And  a  sweeter  delight  every  scene  seemed  to  lend, 
That  the  mansion  of  peace  was  the  home  of  a  FKIEND. 

NOAV  the  scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  dear  to  my  heart, 
All  pensive  I  visit,  and  sigh  to  depart ; 
Their  flowers  seem  to  languish,  their  beauty  to  cease, 
For  a  stranger  inhabits  the  mansion  of  peace. 

But  hushed  be  the  sigh  that  untimely  complains, 
While  Friendship  and  all  its  enchantment  remains, 
While  it  blooms  like  the  flower  of  a  winterless  clime, 
Untainted  by  chance,  unabated  by  time. 


THE   CHERUBS. 

SUGGESTED   BY   AN   APOLOGUE   IN   THE   WORKS   O* 
FRANKLIN. 

Two  spirits  reached  this  world  of  ours: 
The  lightning's  locomotive  powers 

Were  slow  to  their  agility : 
In  broad  daylight  they  moved  incog, 
Enjoying,  without  mist  or  fog, 

Entire  invisibility. 

The  one,  a  simple  cherub  lad, 
Much  interest  in  our  planet  had, 

Its  face  was  so  romantic ; 
He  couldn't  persuade  himself  that  man 
Was  such  as  heavenly  rumors  ran, 

A  being  base  and  frantic. 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  261 

The  elder  spirit,  wise  and  cool, 
Brought  down  the  youth  as  to  a  school ; 

But  strictly  on  condition, 
Whatever  they  shoiild  see  or  hear, 
With  mortals  not  to  interfere ; 

'Twas  not  in  their  commission. 

They  reached  a  sovereign  city  proud, 
Whose  emperor  prayed  to  God  aloud, 

With  all  his  people  kneeling, 
And  priests  performed  religious  rites : 
"  Come,"  said  the  younger  of  the  sprites, 

"This  shows  a  pious  feeling." 

YOUNG   SPIRIT. 

"Ar'n't  these  a  decent  godly  race?" 

OLD  SPIRIT. 
"The  direst  thieves  on  Nature's  face." 

YOUNG   SPIRIT. 

"But  hark,  what  cheers  they're  giving 
Their  emperor! — And  is  he  a  thief?" 

OLD  SPIRIT. 
"  Ay,  and  a  cut-throat  too  ;  —  in  brief, 

THE   GREATEST   SCOUNDREL   LIVING." 
YOUNG   SPIRIT. 

"But  say,  what  were  they  praying  for, 
This  p'eople  and  their  emperor  ? " 

OLD  SPIRIT. 

"  Why,  but  for  God's  assistance 
To  help  their  army,  late  sent  out: 
And  what  that  army  is  about, 
You'll  see  at  no  great  distance." 


262  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

On  wings  outspeeding  mail  or  post, 
Our  sprites  o'ertook  the  Imperial  host ; 

In  massacres  it  wallowed : 
A  noble  nation  met  its  hordes, 
But  broken  fell  their  cause  and  swords, 

Unfortunate,  though  hallowed. 

They  saw  a  late  bombarded  town, 

Its  streets  still  warm  with  blood  ran  down; 

Still  smoked  each  burning  rafter ; 
And  hideously,  'midst  rape  and  sack, 
The  murderer's  laughter  answered  back 

His  prey's  convulsive  laughter. 

They  saw  the  captive  eye  the  dead, 
With  envy  of  his  gory  bed,  — 

Death's  quick  reward  of  bravery : 
They  heard  the  clank  of  chains,  and  then 
Saw  thirty  thousand  bleeding  men 

Dragged  manacled  to  slavery. 

"  Fie  !   fie  !  "   the  younger  heavenly  spark 
Exclaimed  —  "  we  must  have  missed  our  mark, 

And  entered  hell's  own  portals : 
Earth  can't  be  stained  by  crimes  so  black; 
Nay,  sure,  we've  got  among  a  pack 

Of  fiends  and  not  of  mortals." 

"  No,"  said  the  elder  ;    "  no  such  thing  : 
Fiends  are  not  fools  enough  to  wring 

The  necks  of  one  another  :  — 
They  know  their  interests  too  well : 
Men  fight ;   but  every  devil  in  hell 

Lives  friendly  with  his  brother. 

"  And  I  could  point  you  out  some  fellows, 
On  this  ill-fated  planet  Tellus, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  263 

In  royal  power  that  revel, 
Who,  at  the  opening  of  the  book 
Of  judgment,  may  have  cause  to  look 

With  envy  at  the  devil." 

Name  but  the  devil,  and  he'll  appear, 
Old  Satan  in  a  trice  was  near, 

With  smutty  face  and  figure  : 
But  spotless  spirits  of  the  skies, 
Unseen  to  e'en  his  saucer  eyes, 

Could  watch  the  fiendish  nigger. 

"  Halloo  !  "  he  cried,  "  I  smell  a  trick  : 
A.  mortal  supersedes  Old  Nick, 

The  scourge  of  earth  appointed : 
He  robs  me  of  my  trade,  outrants 
The  blasphemy  of  hell,  and  vaunts 

Himself  the  Lord's  anointed. 

"  Folks  make  a  fuss  about  my  mischief : 
D — d  fools,  they  tamely  suifer  this  chief 

To  play  his  pranks  unbounded." 
The  cherubs  flew ;   but  saw  from  high, 
A.t  human  inhumanity, 

The  devil  himself  astounded. 


SENEX'S  SOLILOQUY  ON  HIS  YOUTH- 
FUL  IDOL. 

PLATONIC  friendship  at  yoxir  years, 
Says  Conscience,  should  content  ye; 

Nay,  name  not  fondness  to  her  ears, 
The  darling's  scarcely  twenty. 


264  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Yes,  and  shell  loathe  me  unforgiven, 
To  dote  thus  out  of  season ; 

But  beauty  is  a  beam  from  heaven, 
That  dazzles  blind  our  reason. 

I'll  challenge  Plato  from  the  skies, 
Yes,  from  his  spheres  harmonic, 

To  look  in  M — y  C 's  eyes, 

And  try  to  be  Platonic. 


TO   SIR  FRANCIS  BURDETT, 

ON    HIS    SPEECH     DELIVED    IN    PARLIAMENT,    AUGUST    7,    1832, 
RESPECTING  THE   FOREIGN  POLICY  OF   GREAT   BRITAIN. 

BURDETT,  enjoy  thy  justly  foremost  fame, 

Through    good    and    ill    report  —  through    calm    and 
storm  — 

For  forty  years  the  pilot  of  reform  ! 
But  that  which  shall  afresh  entwine  thy  name 

With  patriot  laurels  never  to  be  sere, 
Is  that  thou  hast  come  nobly  forth  to  chide 
Our  slumbering  statesmen  for  their  lack  of  pride  — 

Their  flattery  of  Oppressors,  and  their  fear  — 
When  Britain's  lifted  finger,  and  her  frown, 
Might  call  the  nations  up,  and  cast  their  tyrants  down  t 

Invoke  the  scorn  —  Alas  !    too  few  inherit 
The  scorn  for  despots  cherished  by  our  sires, 
That  baffled  Europe's  persecuting  fires, 

And  sheltered  helpless  states  !  —  Recall  that  spirit, 
And  conjure  back  Old  England's  haughty  mind  — 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  265 

Convert  the  men  who  waver  now,  and  pause 
Between  their  love  of  self  and  human  kind ; 

And  move,  Amphion-like,  those  hearts  of  stone 

The  hearts  that  have  been  deaf  to  Poland's  dying  groan ! 

Tell  them,  we  hold  the  Rights  of  Man  too  dear, 

To  bless  ourselves  with  lonely  freedom  blest; 

But  could  we  hope,  with  sole  and  selfish  breast, 
To  breathe  untroubled  Freedom's  atmosphere? 

Suppose  we  wished  it?    England  could  not  stand 
A  lone  oasis  in  the  desert  ground 
Of  Europe's  slavery;   from  the  waste  around 

Oppression's  fiery  blast  and  whirling  sand 
Would  reach  and  scathe  us  !     No ;   it  may  not  be  : 
Britannia  and  the  world  conjointly  must  be  free ! 

Burdett,  demand  why  Britons  send  abroad 
Soft  greetings  to  th'  infanticidal  Czar, 
The  Bear  on  Poland's  babes  that  wages  war ! 
Once,  we  are  told,  a  mother's  shriek  o'erawed 

A  lion,  and  he  dropped  her  lifted  child ; 
But  Nicholas,  whom  neither  God  nor  law, 
Nor  Poland's  shrieking  mothers  overawe, 
Outholds  to  us  his  friendship's  gory  clutch: 
Shrink,    Britain  —  shrink,    my   king    and    country,    from 
the  touch ! 

He  prays  to  Heaven  for  England's  king,  he  says  — 
And  dares  he  to  the  God  of  mercy  kneel, 
Besmeared  with  massacres  from  head  to  heel? 

No  !   Moloch  is  his  god  —  to  him  he  prays  ; 
And  if  his  weird-like  prayers  had  power  to  bring 

An  influence,  their  power  would  be  to  curse. 

His  hate  is  baleful,  but  his  love  is  worse  — 
A  serpent's  slaver  deadlier  than  its  sting  ! 

Oh,  feeble  statesmen !    ignominious  times  ! 

That  lick  the  tyrant's  feet,  and  smile  upon  his  crimes  I 
23 


266  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 


ODE   TO    THE    GERMANS. 

THE  Spirit  of  Britannia 

Invokes  across  the  main, 
Her  sister  Allemannia 

To  burst  the  Tyrant's  chain  : 
By  our  kindred  blood,  she  cries, 
Rise,  Allcmamiians,  rise ! 

And  hallowed  thrice  the  band 
Of  our  kindred  hearts  shall  be, 

When  your  land  shall  be  the  land 
Of  the  free  —  of  the  free ! 

With  Freedom's  lion-banner 

Britannia  rules  the  waves ; 
Whilst  your  BROAD  STOXE  OF  HONOR  * 

Is  still  the  camp  of  slaves. 
For  shame,  for  glory's  sake, 
Wake,  Allemannians,  wake ! 

And  thy  tyrants  now  that  whelm 
Half  the  world  shall  quail  and  flee, 

When  your  realm  shall  be  the  realm 
Of  the  free  —  of  the  free  1 

MARS  owes  to  you  his  thunder  t 

That  shakes  the  battle-field ; 
Yet  to  break  your  bonds  asunder 

No  martial  bolt  has  pealed. 
Shall  the  laurelled  land  of  art 
Wear  shackles  on  her  heart? 

No !   the  clock  ye  framed  to  tell 

•  Ehrenbreitstein  signifies,  in  German,  "  the  broad  stone  of  honor." 
t  Germany  invented  gunpowder,  clock-making,  and  printing. 


POEMS.  267 

By  its  sound,  the  march  of  Time, 
Let  it  clang  Oppression's  knell 

O'er  your  clime  —  o'er  your  clime  ! 

The  press's  magic  letters, 

That  blessing  ye  brought  forth,  — 
Behold !   it  lies  in  fetters 

On  the  soil  that  gave  it  birth ! 
But  the  trumpet  must  be  heard, 
And  the  charger  must  be  spurred ; 

For  your  father  Armin's  Sprite 
Calls  down  from  heaven,  that  ye 

Shall  gird  you  for  the  fight, 

And  be  free  !  —  and  be  free  1 


LINES, 

ON  A  PICTTTKE  OF  A  GIRL  IK  THE  ATTITUDE  OP  PRAYER, 
'BY  THE  ARTIST  GRUSE,  IN  THE  POSSESSION  OP  LADY 
STEPNEY. 

WAS  man  e'er  doomed  that  beauty  made 

By  mimic  art  should  haunt  him ; 
Like  Orpheus,  I  adore  a  shade, 

And  dote  upon  a  phantom. 

Thou  maid  that  in  my  inmost  thought 

Art  fancifully  sainted, 
Why  liv'st  thou  not  —  why  art  thou  nought 

But  canvass  sweetly  painted  ? 


268  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Whose  looks  seem  lifted  to  the  skies, 
Too  pure  for  love  of  mortals  — 

As  if  they  drew  angelic  eyes 
To  greet  tliee  at  heaven's  portals. 

Yet  loveliness  has  here  no  grace, 

Abstracted  or  ideal  — 
Art  ne'er  but  from  a  living  face 

Drew  looks  so  seeming  real. 

What  wert  thou,  maid?  — thy  life— thy  name 

Oblivion  hides  in  mystery ; 
Though  from  thy  face  my  heart  could  frame 

A  long  romantic  history. 

Transported  to  thy  time  I  seem, 
Though  dust  thy  coffin  covers  — 

And  hear  the  songs,  in  fancy's  dream, 
Of  thy  devoted  lovers. 

How  witching  must  have  been  thy  breath - 

How  sweet  the  living  charmer, 
Whose  every  semblance  after  death 

Can  make  the  heart  grow  warmer ! 

Adieu,  the  charms  that  vainly  move 

My  soul  in  their  possession  — 
That  prompt  my  lips  to  speak  of  love, 

Yet  rob  them  of  expression. 

Yet  thee,  dear  picture,  to  have  praised 

Was  but  a  poet's  duty ; 
And  shame  to  him  that  ever  gazed 

Impassive  on  thy  beauty. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  969 

LINES, 

ON   THE   VIEW   FROM    ST.    LEONARD'S. 

HAIL  to  thy  face  and  odors,  glorious  Sea! 
'Twere  thanklessness  in  me  to  bless  thee  not, 
Great  beauteous  Being  I   in  whose  breath  and  smile 
My  heart  beats  calmer,  and  my  very  mind 
Inhales  salubrious  thoughts.     How  welcomer 
Thy  murmurs  than  the  murmurs  of  the  world  ! 
Though  like  the  world  thou  fluctuatest,  thy  din 
To  me  is  peace,  thy  restlessness  repose. 
Ev'n  gladly  I  exchange  yon  spring-green  lanes, 
With  all  the  darling  field-flowers  in  their  prime, 
And  gardens  haunted  by  the  nightingale's 
Long  trills  and  gushing  ecstacies  of  song, 
For  these  wild  headlands,  and  the  sea-mew's  clang. 

With  thce  beneath  my  windows,  pleasant  Sea, 

I  long  not  to  o'erlook  earth's  fairest  glades 

And  green  savannahs  —  earth  has  not  a  plain 

So  boundless  or  so  beautiful  as  thine; 

The  eagle's  vision  can  not  take  it  in  : 

The  lightning's  wing,  too  weak  to  sweep  its  space, 

Sinks  half-way  o'er  it  like  a  wearied  bird : 

It  is  the  mirror  of  the  stars,  where  all 

Their  hosts  within  the  concave  firmament, 

Gay  marching  to  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

Can  see  themselves  at  once. 

Nor  on  the  stage 

Of  rural  landscape  are  there  lights  and  shades 
Of  more  harmonious  dance  and  play  than  thine. 
How  vividly  this  moment  brightens  forth, 
23* 


270  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Between  gray  parallel  and  leaden  breadths, 
A  belt  of  hues  that  stripes  thee  many  a  league, 
Flushed  like  the  rainbow,  or  the  ring-dove's  neck, 
And  giving  to  the  glancing  sea-bird's  wing 
The  semblance  of  a  meteor. 

Mighty  Sea  ! 

Chameleon-like  thou  changest,  but  there's  love 
In  all  thy  change,  and  constant  sympathy 
With  yonder  Sky  —  thy  Mistress;   from  her  brow 
Thou  tak'st  ti,y  moods  and  wear'st  her  colors  on 
Thy  faithful  bosom  ;  —  morning's  milky  white, 
Noon's  sapphire,  or  the  saffron  glow  of  eve ; 
And  all  thy  balmier  hours,  fair  Element, 
Have  such  divine  complexion  —  crisped  smiles, 
Luxuriant  heavings,  and  sweet  whisperings, 
That  little  is  the  wonder  Love's  own  Queen 
From  thee  of  old  was  fabled  to  have  sprung  — 
Creation's  common  !    which  no  human  power 
Can  parcel  or  enclose ;   the  lordliest  floods 
And  cataracts  that  the  tiny  hands  of  man 
Can  tame,  conduct,  or  bound,  are  drops  of  dew 
To  thee  that  couldst  subdue  the  earth  itself, 
And  brook' st  commandment  from  the  heavens  alone 
For  marshalling  thy  waves  — 

Yet,  potent  Sea ! 

How  placidly  thy  moist  lips  speak,  ev'n  now 
Along  yon  sparkling  shingles.     Who  can  be 
So  fanciless  as  to  feel  no  gratitude 
That  power  and  grandeur  can  be  so  serene, 
Soothing  the  home-bound  navy's  peaceful  way, 
And  rocking  ev'n  the  fisher's  little  bark 
As  gently  as  a  mother  rocks  her  child  ?  — 

The  inhabitants  of  other  worlds  behold 
Our  orb  more  lucid  for  thy  spacious  share 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  271 

On  earth's  rotundity ;  and  is  he  not 

A  blind  worm  in  the  dust,  great  Deep,  the  man 

Who  sees  not,  or  who  seeing  has  no  joy 

In  thy  magnificence  ?     What  though  thou  art 

Unconscious  and  material,  thou  canst  reach 

The  inmost  immaterial  mind's  recess, 

And  with  thy  tints  and  motion  stir  its  chords 

To  music,  like  the  light  on  Memnon's  lyre  ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Universe  in  thee 
Is  visible ;   thou  hast  in  thee  the  life  — 
Th*  eternal,  graceful,  and  majestic  life 
Of  nature,  and  the  natural  human  heart 
Is  therefore  bound  to  thee  with  holy  love. 

Earth  has  her  gorgeous  towns  :   th'  earth-circling  sea 
Has  spires  and  mansions  more  amusive  still  — 
Men's  volant  homes  that  measure  liquid  space 
On  wheel  or  wing.     The  chariot  of  the  land 
With  pained  and  panting  steeds  and  clouds  of  dust 
Has  no  sight-gladdening  motion  like  these  fair 
Careerers  with  the  foam  beneath  their  bows, 
Whose  streaming  ensigns  charm  the  waves  by  day, 
Whose  carols  and  whose  watch-bells  cheer  the  night, 
Moored  as  they  cast  the  shadows  of  their  masts 
In  long  array,  or  hither  flit  and  yond 
Mysteriously  with  slow  and  crossing  lights, 
Like  spirits  on  the  darkness  of  the  deep. 

There  is  a  magnet-like  attraction  in 

These  waters  to  the  imaginative  power 

That  links  the  viewless  with  the  visible, 

And  pictures  things  unseen.     To  realms  beyond 

Yon  highway  of  the  world  my  fancy  flies, 

When  by  her  tall  and  triple  mast  we  know 

Some  noble  voyager  that  has  to  woo 

The  trade-winds  and  to  stem  the  ecliptic  surge. 


272  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

The  coral  groves  —  the  shores  of  conch  and  pearl, 
Where  she  will  cast  her  anchor  and  reflect 
Her  cabin- window  lights  on  warmer  waves, 
And  under  planets  brighter  than  our  own : 
The  nights  of  palmy  isles,  that  she  will  see 
Lit  boundless. by  the  fire-fly  — all  the  smells 
Of  tropic  fruits  that  will  regale  her  —  all 
The  pomp  of  nature,  and  the  inspiriting 
Varieties  of  life  she  has  to  greet, 
Come  swarming  o'er  the  meditative  mind. 

True,  to  the  dream  of  Fancy,  Ocean  has 

His  darker  tints;   but  where' s  the  element 

That  checkers  not  its  usefulness  to  man 

With  casual  terror  ?     Scathes  not  Earth  sometimes 

Her  children  with  Tartarean  fires,  or  shakes 

Their  shrieking  cities,  and,  with  one  last  clang 

Of  bells  for  their  own  ruin,  strews  them  flat 

As  riddled  ashes  — silent  as  the  grave? 

Walks  not  Contagion  on  the  Air  itself? 

I  should  —  old  Ocean's  Saturnalian  days 

And  roaring  nights  of  revelry  and  sport 

With  wreck  and  human  wo  —  be  loath  to  sing ; 

For  they  are  few,  and  all  their  ills  weigh  light 

Against  his  sacred  usefulness,  that  bids 

Our  pensile  globe  revolve  in  purer  air. 

Here  Morn  and  Eve  with  blushing  thanks  receive 

Their  freshening  dews,  gay  fluttering  breezes  cool 

Their  wings  to  fan  the  brow  of  fevered  climes, 

And  here  the  Spring  dips  down  her  emerald  urn 

For  showers  to  glad  the  earth. 

Old  Ocean  was 

Infinity  of  ages  ere  we  breathed 
Existence  —  and  he  will  be  beautiful 
When  all  the  living  world  that  sees  him  now 
Shall  roll  unconscious  dust  around  the  sun. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  273 

Quelling  from  age  to  age  the  vital  throb 

In  human  hearts,  Death  shall  not  subjugate 

The  pulse  that  swells  in  his  stupendous  breast, 

Or  interdict  his  minstrelsy  to  sound 

In  thundering  concert  with  the  quiring  winds ; 

But  long  as  Man  to  parent  Nature  owns 

Instinctive  homage,  and  in  times  beyond 

The  power  of  thought  to  reach,  bard  after  bard 

Shall  sing  thy  glory,  BEATIFIC  SEA. 


THE    DEAD    EAGLE. 

WRITTEN   AT  ORAN. 

FALL'N  as  he  is,  this  king  of  birds  still 

Like  royalty  in  ruins.    Though  his  eyes 

Are  shut,  that  look  undazzled  on  the  sun, 

He  was  the  sultan  of  the  sky,  and  earth 

Paid  tribute  to  his  eyry.     It  was  perched 

Higher  than  human  conqueror  ever  built 

His  bannered  fort.     Where  Atlas'  top  looks  o'er 

Zahara's  desert  to  the  equator's  line, 

From  thence  the  winged  despot  marked  his  prey, 

Above  th'  encampments  of  the  Bedouins,  ere 

Their  watch-fires  were  extinct,  or  camels  knelt 

To  take  their  loads,  or  horsemen  scoured  the  plain, 

And  there  he  dried  his  feathers  in  the  dawn, 

Whilst  yet  th'  unwakened  world  was  dark  below. 

There's  such  a  charm  in  natural  strength  and  power, 
That  human  fancy  has  for  ever  paid 


J374  CAMPBELL'S    POE>.  j. 

Poetic  homage  to  the  bird  of  Jove. 

Hence,  'neath  his  image,  Rome  arrayed  her  tunns 

And  cohorts  for  the  conquest  of  the  world. 

And  figuring  his  night,  the  mind  is  filled 

With  thoughts  that  mock  the  pride  of  wingless  man. 

True,  the  carred  aeronaut  can  mount  as  high ; 

But  what's  the  triumph  of  his  volant  art? 

A  rash  intrusion  on  the  realms  of  air. 

His  helmless  vehicle,  a  silken  toy, 

A  bubble  bursting  in  the  thunder- cloud ; 

His  course  has  no  volition,  and  he  drifts 

The  passive  plaything  of  the  winds.     Not  such 

Was  this  proud  bird :   he  clove  the  adverse  storm, 

And  cuffed  it  with  his  wings.    He  stopped  his  flight 

As  easily  as  the  Arab  reins  his  steed, 

And  stood  at  pleasure  'neath  Heaven's  zenith,  like 

A  lamp  suspended  from  its  azure  dome. 

Whilst  underneath  him  the  world's  mountains  lay 

Like  mole-hills,  and  her  streams  like  lucid  threads; 

Then  downward,  faster  than  a  falling  star, 

He  neared  the  earth,  until  his  shape  distinct 

Was  blackly  shadowed  on  the  sunny  ground ; 

And  deeper  terror  hushed  the  wilderness, 

To  hear  his  nearer  whoop.     Then,  up  again 

He  soared  and  wheeled.     There  was  an  air  of  scorn 

In  all  his  movements,  whether  he  threw  round 

His  crested  head,  to  look  behind  him,  or 

Lay  vertical,  and  sportively  displayed 

The  inside  whiteness  of  his  wing  declined, 

In  gyres  and  undulations  full  of  grace, 

An  object  beautifying  Heaven  itself. 

'jje  —  reckless  who  was  victor,  and  above 

The  hearing  of  their  guns  —  saw  fleets  engaged 

In  flaming  combat.     It  was  nought  to  him 

What  carnage,  Moor  or  Christian,  strewed  their  decks. 

But  if  his  intellect  had  matched  his  wings, 


CAMPBELL^S     POEMS.  275 

Methinks  he  would  have  scorned  man's  vaunted  power 
To  plough  the  deep;   his  pinions  bore  him  down 
To  Algiers  the  warlike,  or  the  coral  groves 
That  blush  beneath  the  green  of  Bcna's  waves ; 
And  traversed  in  an  hour  a  wider  space 
Than  yonder  gallant  ship,  with  all  her  sails 
Wooing  the  winds,  can  cross  from  morn  till  eve. 
His  bright  eyes  were  his  compass,  earth  his  chart, 
His  talons  anchored  on  the  stormiest  cliff, 
And  on  the  very  light-house  rock  he  perched, 
When  winds  churned  white  the  waves. 


The  earthquake's  self 
Disturbed  not  him  that  memorable  day, 
When,  o'er  yon  table-land,  where  Spain  had  built 
Cathedrals,  cannoned  forts,  and  palaces, 
A  palsy-stroke  of  Nature  shook  Oran, 
Turning  her  city  to  a  sepulchre, 
And  strewing  into  rubbish  all  her  homes, 
Amidst  whose  traceable  foundations  now, 
Of  streets  and  squares,  the  hyaena  hides  himself. 
That  hour  beheld  him  fly  as  careless  o'er 
The  stifled  shrieks  of  thousands  buried  quick, 
As  lately  when  he  pounced  the  speckled  snake, 
Coiled  in  yon  mallows  and  wide  nettle  fields 
That  mantle  o'er  the  dead  old  Spanish  town. 


Strange  is  the  imagination's  dread  delight 

In  objects  linked  with  danger,  death,  and  pain  ! 

Fresh  from  the  luxuries  of  polished  life, 

The  echo  of  these  wilds  enchanted  me; 

And  my  heart  beat  with  joy  when  first  I  heard 

A  lion's  roar  come  down  the  Lybian  wind, 

Across  yon  long,  wide,  lonely  inland  lake, 

Where  boat  ne'er  sails  from  homeless  shore  to  shore. 


276  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

And  yet  Numidia's  landscape  has  its  spots 

Of  pastoral  pleasantness  —  though,  far  between ; 

The  village  planted  near  the  Maraboot's 

Bound  roof  has  aye  its  feathery  palm  trees 

Paired,  for  in  solitude  they  bear  no  fruits. 

Here  nature's  hues  all  harmonize  —  fields  white 

With  alasum,  or  blue  with  bugloss  —  banks 

Of  glossy  fennel,  blent  with  tulips  wild, 

And  sunflowers,  like  a  garment  pranked  with  gold ; 

Acres  and  miles  of  opal  asphodel 

Where  sports  and  couches  the  black-eyed  gazelle. 

Here,  too,  the  air's  harmonious  —  deep-toned  doves 

Coo  to  the  fife-like  carol  of  the  lark; 

And  when  they  cease,  the  holy  nightingale 

Winds  up  his  long,  long  shakes  of  ecstacy, 

With  notes  that  seem  but  the  protracted  sounds 

Of  glassy  runnels  bubbling  over  rocks. 


SONG. 

To  Love  in  my  heart,  I  exclaimed,  t'other  morning, 
Thou  hast  dwelt  here  too  long,  little  lodger,  take  warn 
ing; 

Thou  shalt  tempt  me  no  more  from  my  life's  sober  duty, 
To  go  gadding,  bewitched  by  the  young  eyes  of  beauty. 
For  weary's  the  wooing,  ah !  weary, 
When  an  old  man  will  have  a  young  dearie. 

The  god  left  my  heart,  at  its  surly  reflections, 

But  came  back  on  pretext  of  some  sweet  recollections, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  277 

And  he  made  me  forget  what  I  ought  to  remember, 
That  the  rose-bud  of  June  can  not  bloom  in  November. 
Ah!  Tom,  'tis  all  o'er  with  thy  gay  days  — 
Write  psalms,  and  not  songs  for  the  ladies. 

But  time's  been  so  far  from  my  wisdom  enriching, 
That  the  longer  I  live,  beauty  seems  more  bewitching; 
And  the  only  new  lore  my  experience  traces, 
Is  to  find  fresh  enchantment  in  magical  faces. 

How  weary  is  wisdom,  how  weary  ! 

When  one  sits  by  a  smiling  young  dearie  ! 

And  should  she  be  wroth  that  my  homage  pursues  her 
I  will  turn  and  retort  on  my  lovely  accuser ; 
Who's  to  blame,  that  my  heart  by  your  image  is  haunted  ? 
It  is  you,  the  enchantress  —  not  I,  the  enchanted. 

Would  you  have  me  behave  more  discreetly, 

Beauty,  look  not  so  killingly  sweetly. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN    IN    A    BLANK   LEAP   OF   LA   PEROUSE'S   VOYAGES. 

LOVED  Voyager!   his  pages  had  a  zest 
More  sweet  than  fiction  to  my  wondering  breast, 
When,  rapt  in  fancy,  many  a  boyish  day 
I  tracked  his  wanderings  o'er  the  watery  way, 
Roamed  round  the  Aleutian  isles  in  waking  dreams, 
Or  plucked  the  fieur-de-lys  by  Jesso's  streams  — 
Or  gladly  leaped  on  that  far  Tartar  strand 
Where  Exirope's  anchor  ne'er  had  bit  the  sand, 
24 


278  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Where  scarce  a  roving  wild  tribe  crossed  the  plain, 

Or  human  voice  broke  nature's  silent  reign ; 

But  vast  and  grassy  deserts  feed  the  bear, 

And  sweeping  deer-herds  dread  no  hunter's  snare. 

Such  young  delight  his  real  records  brought, 

"His  truth  so  touched  romantic  springs  of  thought, 

That  all  my  after-life  —  his  fate  and  fame 

Entwined  romance  with  La  Perouse's  name.  — 

Fair  were  his  ships,  expert  his  gallant  crews, 

And  glorious  was  the  emprise  of  La  Perouse, — 

Humanely  glorious  !     Men  will  weep  for  him, 

When  many  a  guilty  martial  fame  is  dim : 

He  ploughed  the  deep  to  bind  no  captive's  chain  — 

Pursued  110  rapine  —  strewed  no  wreck  with  slain ; 

And,  save  that  in  the  deep  themselves  lie  low, 

His  heroes  plucked  no  wreath  from  human  wo. 

'Twas  his  the  earth's  remotest  bound  to  scan, 

Conciliating  with  gifts  barbaric  man  — 

Enrich  the  world's  contemporaneous  mind, 

And  amplify  the  picture  of  mankind. 

Far  on  the  vast  Pacific  —  'midst  those  isles, 

O'er  which  the  earliest  morn  of  Asia  smiles, 

He  sounded  and  gave  charts  to  many  a  shore 

And  gulf  of  Ocean  new  to  nautic  lore ; 

Yet  he  that  led  Discovery  o'er  the  wave, 

Still  fills  himself  an  undiscovered  grave. 

He  came  not  back,  —  Conjecture's  cheek  grew  pale, 

Year  after  year  —  in  no  propitious  gale 

His  lilied  banner  held  its  homeward  way, 

And  Science  saddened  at  her  martyr's  stay. 

An  age  elapsed  —  no  wreck  told  where  or  when 
The  chief  went  down  with  all  his  gallant  men, 
Or  whether  by  the  storm  and  wild  sea  flood 
He  perished,  or  by  wilder  men  of  blood : 
The  shuddering  Fancy  only  guessed  his  doom, 
And  Doubt  to  Sorrow  gave  but  deeper  gloom. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  279 

An  age  elapsed  —  when  men  were  dead  or  gray, 

Whose  hearts  had  mourned  him  in  their  youthful  day ; 

Fame  traced,  on  Mannicolo's  shore,  at  last, 

The  boiling  surge  had  mounted  o'er  his  mast. 

The  islesmen  told  of  some  surviving  men, 

But  Christian  eyes  beheld  them  ne'er  again. 

Sad  bourne  of  all  his  toils  —  with  all  his  band  — 

To  sleep,  wrecked,  shroudless,  on  a  savage  strand ! 

Yet  what  is  all  that  fires  a  hero's  scorn 

Of  death  ?  —  the  hope  to  live  in  hearts  unborn  : 

Life  to  the  brave  is  not  its  fleeting  breath, 

But  worth  —  foretasting  fame,  that  follows  death. 

That  worth  had  La  Perouse  —  that  meed  he  won ; 

He  sleeps  —  his  life's  long  stormy  watch  is  done,, 

In  the  great  deep,  whose  boundaries  and  space 

He  measured,  Fate  ordained  his  resting-place ; 

But  bade  his  fame,  like  th'  'Ocean  rolling  o'er 

His  relics  —  visit  every  earthly  shore. 

Fair  Science,  on  that  Ocean's  azure  robe, 

Still  writes  his  name  in  picturing  the  globe, 

And  paints  —  (what  fairer  wreath  could  glory  +tvine?) 

His  watery  course  —  a  world-encircling  line. 


280  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS, 


THE  PILGRIM  OF   GLENCOE.* 

THE  sunset  sheds  a  horizontal  smile 

O'er  Highland  frith  and  Hebridean  isle, 

While,  gay  with  gambols  of  its  finny  shoals, 

The  glancing  wave  rejoices  as  it  rolls 

With  streamered  busses,  that  distinctly  shine 

All  downward,  pictured  in  the  glassy  hcine; 

Whose  crews,  with  faces  brightening  in  wjfe  sun, 

Keep  measure  with  their  oars,  and  all  in  one 

Strike  up  th'  old  Gaelic  song :  —  Sweep,  rowers,  sweep  I 

The  fisher's  glorious  spoils  are  in  the  deep. 

Day  sinks  —  but  twilight  owes  the  traveller  soon, 
To  reach  his  bourne,  a  round  unclouded  moon, 
Bespeaking  long  undarkcned  hours  of  time  ; 
False  hope  !  —  the  Scots  are  steadfast  —  not  their  clime. 

A  war-worn  soldier  from  the  western  land, 

Seeks  Cona's  vale  by  Ballihoula's  strand,' 

The  vale,  by  eagle-haunted  cliffs  o'erhung, 

Where  Fingal  fought  and  Ossian's  harp  was  strung  — 

Our  veteran's  forehead,  bronzed  on  sultry  plains, 

Had  stood  the  brunt  of  thirty  fought  campaigns ; 


*  1  received  the  substance  of  the  tradition  on  which  this  Poem  la 
founded,  in  the  first  instance,  from  a  friend  in  London,  who  wrote  to 
Matthew  N.  Macdonald,  Esq.,  of  Edinburgh.  He  had  the  kindness  to 
send  me  a  circumstantial  account  of  the  tradition ;  and  that  gentleman's 
knowledge  of  the  Highlands,  as  well  as  his  particular  acquaintance 
with  the  district  of  Glencoe.  leave  me  no  doubt  of  the  incident  having 
really  happened.  I  have  not  departed  from  the  main  facts  of  the  tradi 
tion  as  reported  to  me  by  Mr.  Macdonald ;  only  I  have  endeavored  to 
color  the  personages  of  the  story,  and  to  make  them  as  distinctive  a* 
possible. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  281 

He  well  could  vouch,  the  sad  romance  of  wars, 

And  count  the  dates  of  battles  by  his  scars ; 

For  he  had  served  where  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Britannia's  oriflamme  had  lit  the  plain 

Of  glory  —  and  victorious  stamped  her  name 

On  Oudenarde's  and  Blenheim's  fields  of  fame. 

Nine  times  in  battle-field  his  blood  had  streamed, 

Yet  vivid  still  his  veteran  blue  eye  gleamed ; 

Full  well  he  bore  his  knapsack  —  unoppressed, 

And  marched  with  soldier-like  erected  crest : 

Nor  sign  of  ev'n  loquacious  age  he  wore, 

Save  when  he  told  his  life's  adventures  o'er; 

Some  tired  of  these ;   for  terms  to  him  were  dear, 

Too  tactical  by  far  for  vulgar  ear ; 

As  when  he  talked  of  rampart  and  ravine, 

And  trenches  fenced  with  gabion  and  fascine  — 

But  when  his  theme  possessed  him  all  and  whole 

He  scorned  proud  puzzling  words  and  warmed  the  soul ; 

Hushed  groups  hung  on  his  lips  with  fond  surprise, 

That  sketched  old  scenes  —  like  pictures  to  their  eyes ;  — 

The  wide  war-plain,  with  banners  glowing  bright, 

And  bayonets  to  the  furthest  stretch  of  sight ; 

The  pause,  more  dreadful  than  the  peal  to  come 

From  volleys  blazing  at  the  beat  of  drum  — 

Till  all  the  field  of  thundering  lines  became 

Two  level  and  confronted  sheets  of  flame. 

Then  to  the  charge,  when  Marlboro's  hot  pursuit 

Trode  France's  gilded  lilies  underfoot ; 

He  came  and  kindled  —  and  with  martial  lung 

Would  chant  the  very  march  their  trumpets  sung. 


The  old  soldier  hoped,  ere  evening's  light  should  fiail, 
To  reach  a  home,  south-east  of  Cona's  vale ; 
But  looking  at  Bennevis,  capped  with  snow, 
He  saw  its  mist  come  curling  down  below, 
And  spread  white  darkness  o'er  the  sunset  glow;- 
24* 


282  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

Fast  rolling  like  tempestuous  Ocean's  spray, 
Or  clouds  from  troops  in  battle's  fiery  day  — 
So  dense,  his  quarry  'scaped  the  falcon's  sight, 
The  owl  alone  exulted,  hating  light. 

Benighted  thus  our  pilgrim  groped  his  ground, 
Half  'twixt  the  river's  and  the  cataract's  sound. 
At  last  a  sheep-dog's  bark  informed  his  ear 
Some  human  habitation  might  be  near ; 
Anon  sheep-bleatings  rose  from  rock  to  rock,  — 
Twas  Luath  hounding  to  their  fold  the  flock. 
Ere  long  the  cock's  obstreperous  clarion  rang, 
And  next,  a  maid's  sweet  voice,  that  spinning  sang : 
At  last,  amidst  the  greensward,  (gladsome  sight !  ) 
A  cottage  stood,  with  straw-roof  golden  bright. 

He  knocked,  was  welcomed  in;   none  asked  his  name, 

Nor  whither  he  was  bound,  nor  whence  he  came; 

But  he  was  beckoned  to  the  stranger's  seat, 

Eight  side  the  chimney  fire  of  blazing  peat. 

Blest  Hospitality  makes  not  her  home 

In  walled  parks  and  castellated  dome  ; 

She  flies  the  city's  needy  greedy  crowd, 

And  shuns  still  more  the  mansions  of  the  proud ;  — 

The  balm  of  savage  or  of  simple  life, 

A.  wild-flower  cut  by  culture's  polished  knife  ! 

Che  house,  no  common  sordid  shieling  cot, 
Spoke  inmates  of  a  comfortable  lot; 
The  Jacobite  white  rose  festooned  their  door; 
The  windows  sashed  and  glazed,  the  oaken  floor, 
The  chimney  graced  with  antlers  of  the  deer, 
The  rafters  hung  with  meat  for  winter  cheer, 
And  all  the  mansion,  indicated  plain 
Its  master  a  superior  shepherd  swain. 

Their  supper  came  — the  table  soon  was  spread 
With  eggs,  and  milk,  and  cheese,  and  barley  bread. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  283 

The  family  \vcre  three  —  a  father  hoar, 
Whose  age  you'd  guess  at  seventy  years  or  more, 
His  son  looked  fifty  —  cheerful  like  her  lord, 
His  comely  wife  presided  at  the  board ; 
All  three  had  that  peculiar  courteous  grace 
Which  marks  the  meanest  of  the  Highland  race ; 
Warm  hearts  that  burn  alike  in  weal  and  wo, 
As  if  the  north- wind  fanned  their  bosoms'  glow  ! 
But  wide  unlike  their  souls :   old  Norman's  eye 
Was  proudly  savage  even  in  courtesy. 
His  sinewy  shoulders  —  each,  though  aged  and  lean, 
Broad  as  the  curled  Herculean  head  between, — 
His  scornful  lip,  his  eyes  of  yellow  fire, 
And  nostrils  that  dilated  quick  with  ire, 
With  ever  downward-slanting  shaggy  brows, 
Marked  the  old  lion  you  would  dread  to  rouse. 

Norman,  in  truth,  had  led  his  earlier  life 

In  raids  of  red  revenge  and  feudal  strife ; 

Religious  duty  in  revenge  he  saw, 

Proud  Honor's  right  and  Nature's  honest  law. 

First  in  the  charge  and  foremost  in  pursuit, 

Long-breathed,  deep-chested,  and  in  speed  of  foot 

A  match  for  stags  —  still  fleeter  when  the  prey 

Was  man,  in  persecution's  evil  day; 

Cheered  to  that  chase  by  brutal  bold  Dundee, 

No  Highland  hound  had  lapped  more  blood  than  he. 

Oft  had  he  changed  the  covenanter's  breath 

From  howls  of  psalmody  to  howls  of  death  ; 

And  though  long  bound  to  peace,  it  irked  him  still 

His  dirk  had  ne'er  one  hated  foe  to  kill. 


Yet  Norman  had  fierce  virtues,  that  would  mock 
Cold-blooded  tories  of  the  modern  stock, 
Who  starve  the  breadless  poor  with  fraud  and  cant ;  - 
He  slew  and  saved  them  from  the  pangs  of  want 


284  CAMPBELL'S 

Nor  was  his  solitary  lawless  charm 

Mere  dauntlessness  of  soul  and  strength  of  arm ; 

He  had  his  moods  of  kindness  now  and  then, 

And  feasted  even  well-mannered  lowland  men 

Who  blew  not  up  his  Jacobitish  flame, 

Nor  prefaced  with  "  pretender  "  Charles's  name. 

Fierce,  but  by  sense  and  kindness  not  unwon, 

FTe  loved,  respected  even,  his  wiser  son; 

And  brooked  from  him  expostulations  sage, 

When  all  advisers  else  were  spurned  with  rage. 

Far  happier  times  had  moulded  Ronald's  mind, 

By  nature  too  of  more  sagacious  kind. 

His  breadth  of  brow,  and  Roman  shape  of  chin, 

Squared  well  with  the  firm  man  that  reigned  within. 

Contemning  strife  as  childishness,  he  stood 

With  neighbors  on  kind  terms  of  neighborhood, 

And  whilst  his  father's  anger  nought  availed, 

His  rational  remonstrance  never  failed. 

Full  skilfully  he  managed  farm  and  fold, 

Wrote,  ciphered,  profitably  bought  and  sold ; 

And,  blessed  with  pastoral  leisure,  deeply  took 

Delight  to  be  informed,  by  speech  or  book, 

Of  that  wide  world  beyond  his  mountain  home, 

Where  oft  his  curious  fancy  loved  to  roam. 

Oft  while  his  faithful  dog  ran  round  his  flock, 

He  read  long  hours  when  summer  warmed  the  rock : 

Guests  who  could  tell  him  aught  were  welcomed  warca. 

Even  pedlers'  news  had  to  his  mind  a  charm ; 

That  like  an  intellectual  magnet- stone 

Drew  truth  from  judgments  simpler  than  his  own. 

His  soul's  proud  instinct  sought  not  to  enjoy 
Romantic  fictions,  like  a  minstrel  boy ; 
Truth,  standing  on  her  solid  square,  from  youth 
He  worshipped  —  stern  uncompromising  truth. 


285 

His  goddess  kindlier  smiled  on  him,  to  find 
A  votary  of  her  light  in  land  so  blind ; 
She  bade  majestic  History  unroll 
Broad  views  of  public  welfare  to  his  soul, 
Until  he  looked  on  clannish  feuds  and  foes 
With  scorn,  as  on  the  wars  of  kites  and  crows : 
Whilst  doubts  assailed  him,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
If  men  were  made  for  kings,  or  kings  for  men ; 
At  last,  to  Norman's  horror  and  dismay, 
He  flat  denied  the  Stuarts'  right  to  sway. 

No  blow-pipe  ever  whitened  furnace  fire 

Quick  as  these  words  lit  up  his  father's  ire; 

Who  envied  even  old  Abraham  for  his  faith, 

Ordained  to  put  his  only  son  to  death. 

He  started  up  —  in  such  a  mood  of  soul 

The  white-bear  bites  his  showman's  stirring  pole ; 

He  danced  too,  and  brought  out,  with  snarl  and  howl, 

"  O  Dia  !   Dia  !   and  Dioul !   Dioul !  "  * 

But  sense  foils  fury  —  as  the  bio  whig  whale 

Spouts,  bleeds,  and  dyes  the  waves  without  avail  — 

Wears  out  the  cable's  length  that  makes  him  fast, 

But,  worn  himself,  comes  up  harpooned  at  last  — 

Ev'n  so,  devoid  of  sense,  succumbs  at  length 

Mere  strength  of  zeal  to  intellectual  strength. 

His  son's  close  logic  so  perplexed  his  pate, 

The  old  hero  rather  shunned  than  sought  debate; 

Exhausting  his  vocabulary's  store 

Of  oaths  and  nick-names,  he  could  say  no  more, 

But  tapped  his  mull,t  rolled  mutely  in  his  chair, 

Or  only  whistled  Killicranky's  air. 

Witch  legends  Ronald  scorned  —  ghost,  kelpie,  wraith, 
And  all  the  trumpery  of  vulgar  faith ; 

*  God  and  the  devil  —  a  favorite  ejaculation  of  Highland  saint*, 
t  Snuff-horn. 


286  CAMPBELL'S 

Grave  matrons  ev'n  were  shocked  to  hear  him  slight 

Authenticated  facts  of  second-sight  — 

Yet  never  flinched  his  mockery  to  confound 

The  brutal  superstition  reigning  round. 

Reserved  himself,  still  Ronald  loved  to  scan 

Men's  natures  —  and  he  liked  the  old  hearty  man  • 

So  did  the  partner  of  his  heart  and  life  — 

Who  pleased  her  Ronald,  ne'er  displeased  his  wife. 

His  sense,  'tis  true,  compared  with  Norman's  son, 

Was  common-place  —  his  tales  too  long  outspun- 

Yet  Allan  Campbell's  sympathizing  mind 

Had  held  large  intercourse  with  human  kind ; 

Seen  much,  and  gayly,  graphically  drew 

The  men  of  every  country,  clime,  and  hue ; 

Nor  ever  stooped,  though  soldier-like  his  strain, 

To  ribaldry  of  mirth  or  oath  profane. 

All  went  harmonious  till  the  guest  began 

To  talk  about  his  kindred,  chief,  and  clan ; 

And,  with  his  own  biography  engrossed, 

Marked  not  the  changed  demeanor  of  each  host ; 

Nor  how  old  choleric  Norman's  cheek  became 

Flushed  at  the  Campbell  and  Breadalbane  name; 

Assigning,  heedless  of  impending  harm, 

Their  steadfast  silence  to  his  story's  charm ; 

He  touched  a  subject  perilous  to  touch  — 

Saying,  "  'Midst  this  well-known  vale  I  wondered  much 

To  lose  my  way.     In  boyhood,  long  ago, 

I  roamed,  and  loved  each  pathway  of  Glencoe ; 

Trapped  leverets,  plucked  wild  berries  on  its  braes, 

And  fished  along  its  banks  long  summer  days. 

But  times  grew  stormy  —  bitter  feuds  arose, 

Our  clan  was  merciless  to  prostrate  foes. 

I  never  palliated  my  chieftain's  blame, 

But  mourned  the  sin,  and  reddened  for  the  shame 

Of  that  foul  morn  (Heaven  blot  it  from  the  year !  ) 

Whose  shapes  and  shrieks  still  haunt  my  dreaming  ear 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  387 

What  could  I  do  ?   a  serf —  Glenlyon's  page, 

A  soldier  sworn  at  nineteen  years  of  age ; 

T'  have  breathed  one  grieved  remonstrance  to  our  chiefi 

The  pit  or  gallows  *  would  have  cured  my  grief. 

Forced,  passive  as  the  musket  in  my  hand, 

I  marched  —  when,  feigning  royalty's  command, 

Against  the  clan  Macdonald,  Stairs's  lord 

Sent  forth  exterminating  fire  and  sword ; 

And  troops  at  midnight  through  the  vale  defiled, 

Enjoined  to  slaughter  woman,  man,  and  child. 

My  clansmen  many  a  year  had  cause  to  dread 

The  curse  that  day  entailed  upon  their  head  ; 

Glenlyon's  self  confessed  th'  avenging  spell  — 

I  saw  it  light  on  him. 

"It  so  befell:  — 

A  soldier  from  our  ranks  to  death  was  brought, 
By  sentence  deemed  too  dreadful  for  his  fault ; 
All  was  prepared  —  the  coffin  and  the  cart 
Stood  near  twelve  muskets,  levelled  at  his  heart. 
The  chief,  whose  breast  for  ruth  had  still  some  room, 
Obtained  reprieve  a  day  before  his  doom ;  — 
But  of  th'  awarded  boon  surmised  no  breath. 
The  sufferer  knelt,  blindfolded,  waiting  death,  — 
And  met  it.     Though  Glenlyon  had  desired 
The  musketeers  to  watch  before  they  fired ; 
If  from  his  pocket  they  should  see  he  drew 
A  handkerchief  —  their  volley  should  ensue; 
But  if  he  held  a  paper  in  its  place, 
It  should  be  hailed  the  sign  of  pardoning  grace  : 
He,  in  a  fatal  moment's  absent  fit, 
Drew  forth  the  handkerchief,  and  not  the  writ ; 
Wept  o'er  the  corpse  and  wrung  his  hands  in  wo, 
Crying  « Here's  thy  curse  again,  Glencoe !  Glencoe  ! '" 


*  To  hang  their  vassals,  or  starve  them  to  death  in  a  dungeon,  wa» 
a  privilege  of  the  Highland  chiefs  who  had  hereditary  jurisdictions. 


288  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Though  thus  his  guest  spoke  feelings  just  and  clear, 

The  cabin's  patriarch  lent  impatient  ear ; 

Wroth  that,  beneath  his  roof,  a  living  man 

Should  boast  the  swine-blood  of  the  Campbell  clan; 

He  hastened  to  the  door  —  called  out  his  son 

To  follow ;    walked  a  space,  and  thus  begun :  — 

"You  have  not,  Honald,  at  this  day  to  learn 

The  oath  I  took  beside  my  father's  cairn, 

When  you  were  but  a  babe,  a  twelvemonth  born ;  — 

Sworn  on  my  dirk  —  by  all  that's  sacced,  sworn 

To  be  revenged  for  blood  that  cries  to  Heaven  — 

Blood  unforgiveable,  and  unforgiven  ! 

But  never  power,  si/ice  then,  have  I  possessed 

To  plant  my  dagger  in  a  Campbell's  breast. 

Now,  here's  a  self-accusing  partisan, 

Steeped  in  the  slaughter  of  Macdonald's  clan ! 

I  scorn  his  civil  speech  and  sweet-lipped  show 

Of  pity  —  he  is  still  our  house's  foe  : 

I'll  perjure  not  myself  —  but  sacrifice 

The  caitiff  ere  to-morrow's  sun  arise  ! 

Stand  !    hear  me  —  you're  my  son,  the  deed  is  just ; 

And  if  I  say  —  it  must  be  done  —  it  must : 

A  debt  of  honor  which  my  clansmen  crave,  — 

Their  very  dead  demand  it  from  the  grave." 

Conjuring  then  their  ghosts,  he  humbly  prayed 

Their  patience  till  the  blood-debt  should  be  paid. 

But  Ronald  stopped  him.  —  "  Sir,  Sir,  do  not  dim 

Your  honor  by  a  moment's  angry  whim  ; 

Your  soul's  too  just  and  generous,  were  you  cool, 

To  act  at  once  th'  assassin  and  the  fool. 

Bring  me  the  men  on  whom  revenge  is  due, 

And  I  will  dirk  them  willingly  as  you  ! 

But  all  the  real  authors  of  "that  black 

Old  deed  are  gone  —  you  can  not  bring  them  back ; 

And  this  poor  guest,  'tis  palpable  to  judge, 

In  all  his  life  ne'er  bore  our  clan  a  grudge ;  — 

Dragged,  when  a  boy,  against  his  will,  to  share 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  5289 

That  massacre,  he  loathed  the  foul  affair. 
Think,  if  your  hardened  heart  be  conscience-proof^ 
To  stab  a  stranger  underneath  your  roof  — 
One  who  has  broken  bread  within  your  gate  — 
Reflect  —  before  reflection  comes  too  late,  — 
Such  ugly  consequences  there  may  be 
As  judge  and  jury,  rope  and  gallows-tree. 
The  days  of  dirking  snugly  are  gone  by  : 
Where  could  you  hide  the  body  privily, 
When  search  is  made  for't  ? " 

"Plunge  it  in  yon  flood, 

That  Campbells  crimsoned  with  our  kindred  blood." 
"Ay,  but  the  corpse  may  float  —  " 

"  Pshaw  !    dead  men  tell 
No  tales  —  nor  will  it  float  if  leaded  well. 
I  am  determined  !  "  —  What  could  Ronald  do  ? 
No  house  within  car-reach  of  his  halloo ; 
Though  that  would  but  have  published  household  shame  1 
He  temporized  with  wrath  he  could  not  tame,  — 
And  said,  "  Come  in  ;    till  night  put  off  the  deed, 
And  ask  a  few  more  questions  ere  he  bleed." 
They  entered  :   Norman  with  portentous  air 
Strode  to  a  nook  behind  the  stranger's  chair, 
And,  speaking  nought,  sat  grimly  in  the  shade, 
With  dagger  in  his  clutch,  beneath  his  plaid. 
His  son's  own  plaid,  should  Norman  pounce  his  prey, 
Was  coiled  thick  round  his  arm,  to  turn  away 
Or  blunt  the  dirk.     He  purposed  leaving  free 
The  door,  and  giving  Allan  time  to  flee, 
Whilst  he  should  wrestle  with  (no  safe  emprise) 
His  father's  maniac  strength  and  giant  size. 
Meanwhile  he  could  nowise  communicate 
Th'  impending  peril  to  his  anxious  mate  ; 
But  she,  convinced  no  trifling  matter  now 
Disturbed  the  wonted  calm  of  Ronald's  brow, 
Divined  too  well  the  caxise  of  gloom  that  lowered, 
And  sat  with  speechless  terror  overpowered. 
25 


290  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Her  face  was  pale,  so  lately  blithe  and  bland, 
The  stocking  knitting-wire  shook  in  her  hand. 
But  Ronald  and  the  guest  resumed  their  thread 
Of  converse  —  still  its  theme  that  day  of  dread. 

"Much,"  said  the  veteran,  "much  as  I  bemoan 

That  deed,  when  half  a  hundred  years  have  flown. 

Still  on  one  circumstance  I  can  reflect 

That  mitigates  the  dreadful  retrospect. 

A  mother  with  her  child  before  us  flew,— 

I  had  the  hideous  mandate  to  pursue ; 

But  swift  of  foot,  outspeeding  bloodier  men, 

I  chased,  o'ertook  her  in  the  winding  glen, 

And  showed  her,  palpitating,  where  to  save 

Herself  and  infant  in  a  secret  cave; 

Nor  left  them  till  I  saw  that  they  could  mock 
Pursuit  and  search  within  that  sheltering  rock." 
"  Heavens  !  "  Ronald  cried,  in  accents  gladly  wild, 
"  That  woman  was  my  mother  —  I  the  child  ! 
Of  you,  unknown  by  name,  she  late  and  air,* 
Spoke,  wept,  and  ever  blessed  you  in  her  prayer, 
Ev'n  to  her  death ;    describing  you  withal 
A  well-looked  florid  youth,  blue-eyed  and  tall." 
They  rose,  exchanged  embrace :  the  old  lion  then 
Upstarted,  metamorphosed,  from  his  den; 
Saying,  "  Come  and  make  thy  home  with  us  for  lif 
Heaven-sent  preserver  of  my  child  and  wife. 
I  fear  thou'rt  poor  —  that  Hanoverian  thing 
Rewards  his  soldiers  ill."  —  "  God  save  the  king  !  " 
With  hand  upon  his  heart,  old  Allan  said, 
"  I  wear  his  uniform,  I  eat  his  bread, 
And  whilst  I've  tooth  to  bite  a  cartridge,  all 
For  him  and  Britain's  fame  I'll  stand  or  fall." 
"Bravo  !  "  cried  Ronald.     "  I  commend  your  zeal," 
Quoth  Norman,  "  and  I  see  your  heart  is  leal ; 

*  Scotch  for  late  and  early. 


L 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  291 

But  I  have  prayed  my  soul  may  never  thrive 
If  thou  shouldst  leave  this  house  of  ours  alive. 
Nor  shalt  thou ;  —  in  this  home  protract  thy  breath 
Of  easy  life,  nor  leave  it  till  thy  death." 

The  following  morn  arose  serene  as  glass, 

And  red  Bennevis  shone  like  molten  brass ; 

"While  sunrise  opened  flowers  with  gentle  force, 

The  guest  and  Ronald  walked  in  long  discourse. 

"  Words  fail  me,"  Allan  said,  "  to  thank  aright 

Your  father's  kindness  shown  me  yesternight ; 

Yet  scarce  I'd  wish  my  latest  days  to  spend, 

A  fireside  fixture,  with  the  dearest  friend : 

Besides,  I've  but  a  fortnight's  furlough  now, 

To  reach  Macallin  More,*  beyond  Lochawe. 

I'd  fain  memorialize  the  powers  that  be 

To  deign  remembrance  of  my  wounds  and  me ; 

My  life-long  service  never  bore  the  brand 

Of  sentence  —  lash,  disgrace,  or  reprimand. 

And  so  I've  written,  though  in  meagre  style, 

A  long  petition  to  his  Grace  Argyle ; 

I  mean,  on  reaching  Innerara's  shore, 

To  leave  it  safe  within  his  castle  door." 

"Nay,"  Ronald  said,  "the  letter  that  you  bear 

Intrust  it  to  no  lying  varlet's  care; 

But  say,  a  soldier  of  King  George  demands 

Access,  to  leave  it  in  the  Duke's  own  hands. 

But  show  me,  first,  the  epistle  to  your  chief; 

'Tis  nought,  unless  succinctly  clear  and  brief; 

Great  men  have  no  great  patience  when  they  read, 

And  long  petitions  spoil  the  cause  they  plead." 

That  day  saw  Ronald  from  the  field  full  soon 
Return;   and  when  they  all  had  dined  at  noon, 

*  The  Duke  of  Argyle. 


292  CAMPBELL'S      POEMS. 

He  conned  th'  old  man's  memorial  —  lopped  its  length. 
And  gave  it  style,  simplicity,  and  strength ; 
Twas  finished  in  an  hour  —  and  in  the  next 
Transcribed  by  Allan  in  perspicuous  text. 
At  evening,  he  and  Ronald  shared  once  more 
A  long  and  pleasant  walk  by  Cona's  shore. 
"I'd  press  you,"  quoth  his  host — ("I  need  not  say 
How  warmly)  ever  more  with  us  to  stay ; 
But  Charles  intends,  'tis  said,  in  these  same  parts 
To  try  the  fealty  of  our  Highland  hearts. 
'Tis  my  belief,  that  he  and  all  his  line 
Have  —  saving  to  be  hanged  —  no  right  divine  ; 
From  whose  mad  enterprise  can  only  flow 
To  thousands  slaughter,  and  to  myriads  wo. 
Yet  have  they  stirred  my  father's  spirit  sore,  — 
He  flints  his  pistols,  whets  his  old  claymore, 
And  longs  as  ardently  to  join  the  fray 
As  boy  to  dance  who  hears  the  bagpipe  play. 
Though  calm  one  day,  the  next,  disdaining  rule, 
He'd  gore  your  red  coat  like  an  angry  bull : 
I  told  him,  and  he  owned  it  might  be  so, 
Your  tempers  never  could  in  concert  flow. 
But  '  Mark,'  he  added,  '  Ronald  !    from  our  door 
Let  not  this  guest  depart  forlorn  and  poor ; 
Let  not  your  souls  the  niggardness  evince 
Of  lowland  pedler,  or  of  German  prince : 
He  gave  you  life  —  then  feed  him  as  you'd  feed 
Your  very  father  were  he  cast  in  need.' 
He  gave  —  you'll  find  it  by  your  bed  to-night  — 
A  leathern  purse  of  crowns,  all  sterling  bright : 
You  see  I  do  you  kindness  not  by  stealth. 
My  wife  —  no  advocate  of  squandering  wealth  — 
Vows  that  it  would  be  parricide,  or  worse, 
Should  we  neglect  you  —  here's  a  silken  purse, 
Some  golden  pieces  through  the  network  shine,  — 
"Tis  proffered  to  you  from  her  heart  and  mine 
But  come !   no  foolish  delicacy  —  no  ! 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  293 

We  own,  but  can  not  cancel  what  we  owe ;  — 
This  sum  shall  duly  reach  you  once  a  year." 
Poor  Allan's  furrowed  face,  and  flowing  tear, 
Confessed  sensations  which  he  could  not  speak. 
Old  Norman  bade  him  farewell  kindly  meek. 

At  morn,  the  smiling  dame  rejoiced  to  pack 
With  viands  full  the  old  soldier's  haversack. 
He  feared  not  hungry  grass*  with  such  a  load, 
And  Ronald  saw  him  miles  upon  his  road. 

A  march  of  three  days  brought  him  to  Lochfyne : 
Argyle,  struck  with  his  manly  look  benign, 
And  feeling  interest  in  the  veteran's  lot, 
Created  him  a  sergeant  on  the  spot  — 
An  invalid,  to  serve  not  —  but  with  pay 
(A  mighty  sum  to  him,)  twelve  pence  a  day. 
"  But  have  you  heard  not,"  said  Macallin  More, 
"  Charles  Stuart's  landed  on  Eriska's  shore, 
And  Jacobites  are  arming  ?  "  —  "  What !  indeed  ! 
Arrived  !    then  I'm  no  more  an  invalid  ; 
My  new-got  halbert  I  must  straight  employ 
In  battle."  —  "  As  you  please,  old  gallant  boy  : 
Your  gray  hairs  well  might  plead  excuse,  'tis  true, 
But  now's  the  time  we  want  such  men  as  you." 
In  brief,  at  Innerara  Allan  stayed, 
And  joined  the  banners  of  Argyle' s  brigade. 

Meanwhile,  th'  old  choleric  shepherd  of  Glencoe 
Spurned  all  advice,  and  girt  himself  to  go. 
What  was't  to  him  that  foes  would  poind  their  fold, 
Their  lease,  their  very  beds  beneath  them  sold  ? 
And  firmly  to  his  text  he  would  have  kept, 
Though  Ronald  argued  and  his  daughter  wept. 

*  When  the  hospitable  Highlanders  load  a  parting  guest  with  provi»« 
ions,  they  tell  him  he  will  need  them,  as  lie  lins  10  go  over  a  great  4e«l 
of  "hungry  grass." 

26  » 


294  CAMPBELL    S     POEMS. 

But  'midst  the  impotence  of  tears  and  prayer, 

Chance  snatched  them  from  proscription  and  despair. 

Old  Norman's  blood  was  headward  wont  to  mount 

Too  rapid  from  his  heart's  impetuous  fount ; 

And  one  day,  whilst  the  German  rats  he  cursed, 

An  artery  in  his  wise  sensorium  burst. 

The  lancet  saved  him :   but  how  changed,  alas  ! 

From  him  who  fought  at  Killiecrankie's  pass  ! 

Tame  as  a  spaniel,  timid  as  a  child, 

He  muttered  incoherent  words  and  smiled ; 

He  wept  at  kindness,  rolled  a  vacant  eye, 

And  laughed  full  often  when  he  meant  to  cry. 

Poor  man !    whilst  in  this  lamentable  state, 

Came  Allan  back  one  morning  to  his  gate, 

Hale  and  unburdened  by  the  woes  of  eild, 

And  fresh  with  credit  from  Culloden's  field. 

'Twas  feared,  at  first,  the  sight  of  him  might  touch 

The  old  Macdonald's  morbid  mind  too  much ; 

But  no  !    though  Norman  knew  him  and  disclosed, 

Ev'n  rallying  memory,  he  was  still  composed ; 

Asked  all  particulars  of  the  fatal  fight, 

And  only  heaved  a  sigh  for  Charles's  flight; 

Then  said,  with  but  one  moment's  pride  of  air, 

It  might  not  have  been  so  had  I  been  there  ! 

Few  days  elapsed  till  he  reposed  beneath 

His  gray  cairn,  on  the  wild  and  lonely  heath : 

Son,  friends,  and  kindred,  of  his  dust  took  leave, 

And  Allan  with  the  crape  bound  round  his  sleeve. 

Old  Allan  now  hung  up  his  sergeant's  sword, 
And  sat,  a  guest  for  life,  at  Ronald's  board. 
He  waked  no  longer  at  the  barrack's  drum, 
Yet  still  you'd  see,  when  peep  of  day  was  come, 
Th'  erect  tall  red-coat,  walking  pastures  round, 
Or  delving  with  his  spade  the  garden  ground. 
Of  cheerful  temper,  habits  strict  and  sage, 
He  reached,  enjoyed  a  patriarchal  age  — 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  2Q?> 

Loved  to  the  last  by  the  Macdonalds.     Near 
Their  house,  his  stone  was  placed  with  many  a  tear,' 
And  Ronald's  self,  in  stoic  virtue  brave, 
Scorned  not  to  weep  at  Allan  Campbell's  grave. 


THE    CHILD    AND    HIND.* 

COME,  maids  and  matrons,  to  caress 

Wiesbaden's  gentle  hind; 
And,  smiling,  deck  its  glossy  neck 

With  forest  flowers  entwined. 

Your  forest  flowers  are  fair  to  show, 

And  landscapes  to  enjoy; 
But  fairer  is  your  friendly  doe 

That  watched  the  sleeping  boy. 

*  I  wish  I  had  preserved  a  copy  of  the  Wiesbaden  newspaper  in 
which  this  anecdote  of  the  "Child  and  Hind"  is  recorded:  but  I  have 
unfortunately  lost  it.  The  story,  however,  is  a  matter  of  fact;  it  took 
place  in  1833:  every  circumstance  mentioned  in  the  following  ballad 
literally  happened.  I  was  in  Wiesbaden  eight  months  ago,  and  wag 
shown  the  very  tree  under  which  the  boy  was  found  sleeping,  with  a 
bunch  of  flowers  in  his  little  hand.  A  similar  occurrence  is  told  by 
tradition  of  Queen  Genevova's  child  being  preserved  by  being  suckled 
by  a  female  deer,  when  that  Princess —  an  early  Christian  -and  now  a 
Saint  in  the  Romish  calender,  was  chased  to  the  desert  by  her  heathen 
enemies.  The  spot  assigned  to  the  traditionary  event,  is  not  a  hundred 
miles  from  Wiesbaden,  where  a  chapel  still  stands  to  her  memory. 

I  could  not  ascertain  whether  the  Hind  that  watched  my  hero  «  Wil- 
helm,"  suckled  him  or  not;  but  it  was  generally  believed  that  she  had 
no  milk  to  give  him,  and  that  the  boy  must  have  been  for  two  days  and 
a  half  entirely  without  food,  unless  it  might  be  grass  or  leaves.  If  this 
was  the  case,  the  circumstance  of  the  Wiesbaden  deer  watching  the 
eluld,  was  a  still  more  wonderful  token  of  instinctive  fondness  than  that 
of  the  deer  in  the  Genevova  tradition,  who  was  naturally  anxious  to  be 
relieved  of  her  milk. 


296  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

'Twas  after  church  —  on  Ascension  day  — 
When  organs  ceased  to  sound, 

Wiesbaden's  people  crowded  gay 
The  deer-park's  pleasant  ground. 

There,  where  Elysian  meadows  smile, 

And  noble  trees  upshoot, 
The  wild  thyme  and  the  chamomile 

Smell  sweetly  at  their  root ; 

The  aspen  quivers  nervously, 
The  oak  stands  stilly  bold  — 

And  climbing  bindweed  hangs  on  high 
His  bells  of  beaten  gold.* 

Nor  stops  the  eye  till  mountains  shine 
That  bound  a  spacious  view, 

Beyond  the  lordly,  lovely  Rhine, 
In  visionary  blue. 

There,  monuments  of  ages  dark 

Awaken  thoughts  sublime ; 
Till,  swifter  than  the  steaming  bark, 

We  mount  the  stream  of  time. 

The  ivy  there  old  castles  shades 

That  speak  traditions  high 
Of  minstrels,  tournaments,  crusades, 

And  mail-clad  chivalry. 

Here  came  a  twelve  years'  married  pair  — 
And  with  them  wandered  free 

Seven  sons  and  daughters,  blooming  fair, 
A  gladsome  sight  to  see. 


•  Tnere  is  only  one  kind  of  bindweed  that  is  yellow,  and  that  is  the 
flower  here  mentioned,  the  Panicolatus  Convolvulus. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  297 

Their  Wilhelm,  little  innocent, 

The  youngest  of  the  seven, 
Was  beautiful  as  painters  paint 

The  cherubim  of  Heaven. 

By  turns  he  gave  his  hand,  so  dear, 

To  parent,  sister,  brother; 
And  each,  that  he  was  safe  and  near, 

Confided  in  the  other. 

But  Wilhelm  loved  the  field-flowers  bright, 

With  love  beyond  all  measure; 
And  culled  them  with  as  keen  delight 

As  misers  gather  treasure. 

Unnoticed,  he  contrived  to  glide 

Adown  a  greenwood  alley, 
By  lilies  lured,  that  grew  beside 

A  streamlet  in  the  valley ; 

And  there,  where  under  beech  and  birch 

The  rivulet  meandered, 
He  strayed,  till  neither  shout  nor  search 

Could  track  where  he  had  wandered. 

Still  louder,  with  increasing  dread, 

They  called  his  darling  name ; 
But  'twas  like  speaking  to  the  dead  — 

An  echo  only  came. 

Hours  passed  till  evening's  beetle  roams, 

And  blackbird's  songs  begin; 
Then  all  went  back  to  happy  homes, 

Save  Wilhchn's  kith  and  kin. 

The  night  came  on  —  all  others  slept 
Their  cares  away  till  morn ; 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

But  sleepless,  all  night  watched  and  wept 
That  family  forlorn. 

Betimes  the  town  crier  had  been  sent 

With  loud  bell,  up  and  down  ; 
And  told  th'  afflicting  accident 

Throughout  Wiesbaden's  town  : 

The  father,  too,  ere  morning  smiled, 

Had  all  his  wealth  uncoffered  ; 
And  to  the  wight  would  bring  his  child 

A  thousand  crowns  had  offered. 

Dear  friends,  who  would  have  blushed  to  take 

That  guerdon  from  his  hand, 
Soon  joined  in  groups  —  for  pity's  sake, 

The  child-  exploring  band. 

The  news  reached  Nassau's  Duke  :   ere  earth 

Was  gladdened  by  the  lark, 
He  sent  a  hundred  soldiers  forth 

To  ransack  all  his  park. 


Their  side-arms  glittered  through  the 
With  bugle-horns  to  sound;  — 

Would  that  02  errand  half  so  good 
The  soldier  oft  were  found  ! 


But  though  they  roused  up  beast  and  bird 

From  many  a  nest  and  den, 
No  signal  of  success  was  heard 

From  all  the  hundred  men. 

A  second  morning's  light  expands, 

Unfound  the  infant  fair; 
And  Wilhelm's  household  wring  their  hands, 

Abandoned  to  despair. 


POEMS.  299 

But,  haply,  a  poor  artisan 

Searched  ceaselessly,  till  he 
Found  safe  asleep  the  little  one, 

Beneath  a  beechen  tree. 

His  hand  still  grasped  a  bunch  of  flowers ; 

And  (true,  though  wondrous)  near, 
To  sentry  his  reposing  hours, 

There  stood  a  female  deer  — 

Who  dipped  her  horns  at  all  that  passed* 

The  spot  where  Wilhelm  lay; 
Till  force  was  had  to  hold  her  fast, 

And  bear  the  boy  away. 

Hail !   sacred  love  of  Childhood  —  hail ! 

How  sweet  it  is  to  trace 
Thine  instinct  in  Creation's  scale, 

Ev'n  'neath  the  human  race. 

To  this  poor  wanderer  of  the  wild 
Speech,  reason  were  unknown  — 

And  yet  she  watched  a  sleeping  child 
As  if  it  were  her  own ; 

And  thou,  Wiesbaden's  artisan, 

Restorer  of  the  boy, 
Was  ever  welcomed  mortal  man 

With  such  a  burst  of  joy  ? 

The  father's  ecstacy  —  the  mother's 

Hysteric  bosom's  swell ; 
The  sisters'  sobs  —  the  shout  of  brothers, 

I  have  not  power  to  tell. 

*  The  female  deer  has  no  such  antlers  as  the  male,  and  sometimes  no 
horni  at  all ;  but  I  have  observed  many  with  short  ones  suckling  their 
fawiw. 


300  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

The  working  man,  with  shoulders  broad, 

Took  blithely  to  his  wife 
The  thousand  crowns ;   a  pleasant  load, 

That  made  him  rich  for  life. 

And  Nassau's  Duke  the  favorite  took 

Into  his  deer-park's  centre, 
To  share  a  field  with  other  pets, 

Where  deer-slayer  can  not  enter. 

There,  whilst  thou  cropp'st  thy  flowery  food, 
Each  hand  shall  pat  thee  kind ; 

And  man  shall  never  spill  thy  blood  — 
Wiesbaden's  gentle  hind. 


NAPOLEON    AND    THE    BRITISH    SAILOR.* 

I  LOVE  contemplating  —  apart 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory, 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 

Napoleon's  glory  ! 

'Twas  when  hia  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

*  This  anecdote  has  been  published  in  several  public  journals,  both 
French  and  British.  My  belief  in  its  authenticity  was  confirmed  by  an 
Englishman,  long  resident  at  Boulogne,  lately  telling  me,  that  ho 
remembered  the  circumstance  to  have  been  generally  talked  of  in  the 
place. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  301 

They  suffered  him  —  I  know  not  how, 
Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam ; 

And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks,  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over ; 

With  envy  they  could  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 

If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 
He  saw,  one  morning  —  dreaming,  doting  — 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating  ; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 
The  live-long  day  laborious ;   lurking 

Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  'twas  a  thing  beyond. 
Description  wretched ;  such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field, 
It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder; 

Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled, 
No  sail  —  no  rudder. 

From  neighboring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows ; 
26 


302 


And  thus  equipped  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows  : 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 
His  little  Argus  sorely  jeering ; 

Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 
Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger ; 

And,  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Addressed  the  stranger  :  — 

"Rash  man,  that  wouldst  yon  channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned, 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad; 

"  But  —  absent  long  from  one  another  — 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 

To  see  my  mother." 

"And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said, 
"  Ye've  both  my  favor  fairly  won ; 

A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 

He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 
To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty; 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  303 


THE    JILTED    NYMPH. 


To  the  Scotch  Tune  of  "  Wooed  and  Married  and  a'. 

I'M  jilted,  forsaken,  outwitted ; 

Yet  think  not  I'll  whimper  or  brawl  — 
The  lass  is  alone  to  be  pitied 

Who  ne'er  has  been  courted  at  all : 
Never  by  great  or  small, 
Wooed  or  jilted  at  all ; 

Oh,  how  unhappy's  the  lass 
Who  has  never  been  courted  at  all ! 


My  brother  called  out  the  dear  faithless  — 

In  fits  I  was  ready  to  fall, 
Till  I  found  a  policeman  who,  scatheless, 

Swore  them  both  to  the  peace  at  Guildhall; 
Seized  them,  seconds  and  all  — 
Pistols,  powder  and  ball ; 

I  wished  him  to  die  my  devoted, 
But  not  in  a  duel  to  sprawl. 

What  though  at  my  heart  he  has  tilted, 

What  though  I  have  met  with  a  fall  ? 
Better  be  courted  and  jilted 

Than  never  be  courted  at  all.  • 
Wooed  and  jilted  and  all, 
Still  I  will  dance  at  the  ball; 

And  waltz  and  quadrille 

With  light  heart  and  heel, 
With  proper  young  men,  and  talL 


304  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

But  lately  I've  met  with  a  suitor, 
Whose  heart  I  have  gotten  in  thrall, 

And  I  hope  soon  to  tell  you,  in  future, 
That  I'm  wooed,  and  married,  and  all; 

Wooed,  and  married,  and  all,  — 

What  greater  bliss  can  befall  ? 

And  you  all  shall  partake  of  my  bridal  cake. 

When  I'm  wooed,  and  married,  and  all. 


BENLOMOND. 

HADST  thou  a  genius  on  thy  peak, 
What  tales,  white-headed  Ben, 

Couldst  thou  of  ancient  ages  speak, 
That  mock  th'  historian's  pen ! 

Thy  long  duration  makes  our  lives 

Seem  but  so  many  hours ; 
And  likens  to  the  bees'  frail  hives 

Our  most  stupendous  towers. 

Temples  and  towers  thou'st  seen  begun, 
New  creeds,  new  conquerors'  sway; 

And,  like  their  shadows  in  the  sun, 
Hast  seen  them  swept  away. 

Thy  steadfast  summit,  heaven-allied, 

(Unlike  life's  little  span,) 
Looks  down,  a  Mentor,  on  the  pride 

Of  perishable  man. 


CAMPBELL'S   POEMS.  30$ 

THE   PARROT. 

A   DOMESTIC   ANECDOTE. 

THK  following  incident,  so  strongly  illustrating  the  power  of  memory 
and  association  in  the  lower  animals,  is  not  a  fiction.  I  heard  it  many 
year,  ago  in  the  Island  of  Mull,  from  the  family  to  whom  the  bird 
belonged. 

THE  deep  affections  of  the  breast, 

That  Heaven  to  living  things  imparts, 

Are  not  exclusively  possessed 
By  human  hearts. 

A  parrot,  from  the  Spanish  Main, 

Full  young,  and  early  caged,  came  o'er 

With  bright  wings,  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  MuUa's  shore. 

To  spicy  groves  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue, 

His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  sun, 
He  bade  adieu. 

For  these  he  changed  the  smoke  of  turf, 

A  heathery  land  and  misty  sky, 
And  turned  on  rocks  and  raging  surf 

His  golden  e^e. 

But,  petted,  in  our  climate  cold 
He  lived  and  chattered  many  a  day; 

Until  with  age,  from  green  and  gold 
His  wings  grew  gray. 
26* 


306  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

At  last,  when  blind  and  seeming  dumb, 
He  scolded,  laughed,  and  spoke  no  more, 

A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla's  shore ; 

He  hailed  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech, 
The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied, 

Flapped  round  his  cage  with  joyous  screech, 
Drom>ed  down,  and  died. 


ON    GETTING    HOME    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    A 
FEMALE    CHILD,    SIX    YEARS    OLD, 

PAINTED    BY   EUGENIO    LATILLA. 

TYPE  of  the  Cherubim  above, 
Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love ! 
Smile  from  my  wall,  dear  roguish  sprite, 
By  sunshine  and  by  candle-light ; 
For  both  look  sweetly  on  thy  traits : 
Or,  were  the  Lady-Moon  to  gaze, 
She'd  welcome  thee  with  lustre  bland, 
Like  some  young  fay  from  Fairy-Land. 
Cast  in  simplicity's  own  mould, 
How  canst  thou  be  so  manifold 
In  sportively  distracting  charms? 
Thy  lips  —  thine  eyes  —  thy  little  arms 
That  wrap  thy  shoulders  and  thy  head 
In  homeliest  shawl  of  netted  thread, 
Brown  woollen  net-work ;   yet  it  seeks 
Accordance  with  thy  lovely  cheeks, 


POEMS.  807 

And  more  becomes  thy  beauty's  bloom 
Than  any  shawl  from  Cashmere's  loom. 

Thou  hast  not,  to  adorn  thee,  girl, 

Flower,  link  of  gold,  or  gem,  or  peaxl  — 

I  would  not  let  a  ruby  speck 

The  peeping  whiteness  of  thy  neck. 

Thou  need'st  no  casket,  witching  elf, 

No  gawd  —  thy  toilet  is  thyself ; 

Not  ev'n  a  rose-bud  from  the  bower  — 

Thyself  a  magnet  —  gem,  and  flower. 

My  arch  and  playful  little  creature, 

Thou  hast  a  mind  in  every  feature ; 

Thy  brow,  with  its  disparted  locks, 

Speaks  language  that  translation  mocks : 

Thy  lucid  eyes  so  beam  with  soul, 

They  on  the  canvas  seem  to  roll, 

Instructing  both  my  head  and  heart 

To  idolize  the  painter's  art. 

He  marshals  minds  to  Beauty's  feast, 

He  is  Humanity's  high  priest, 

Who  proves,  by  heavenly  forms  on  earth, 

How  much  this  world  of  ours  is  worth. 

Inspire  me,  child,  with  visions  fair  ! 

For  children,  in  Creation,  are 

The  only  things  that  could  be  given 

Back,  —  and  alive,  unchanged,  —  to  Heaven ! 


308  CAMPBELL'S     POEMS 


SONG    OF    THE    COLONISTS    DEPARTING    FOR 
NEW    ZEALAND. 

STEER,  helmsman,  till  you  steer  our  way, 

By  stars  beyond  the  line ; 
We  go  to  found  a  realm,  one  day, 

Like  England's  self  to  shine. 

CHORUS. 
Cheer  up  !   cheer  up  !   our  course  we'll  keep, 

With  dauntless  heart  and  hand ; 
And  when  we've  ploughed  the  stormy  deep, 

We'll  plough  a  smiling  land  — 

A  land,  where  beauties  importune 

The  Briton  to  its  bowers, 
To  sow  but  plenteous  seeds,  and  prune 

Luxuriant  fruits  and  flowers. 

Chorus.  —  Cheer  up  !   cheer  up  !  &c. 

There,  tracts  uncheered  by  human  words, 

Seclusion's  wildest  holds, 
Shall  hear  the  lowing  of  our  herds, 

And  tinkling  of  our  folds. 

Chorus.  —  Cheer  up  !   cheer  up  I  &o 

Like  rubies  set  in  gold,  shall  blush 

Our  vineyards  girt  with  corn ; 
And  wine,  and  oil,  and  gladness  gush 

From  Amalthea's  horn. 

Chorus.  —  Cheer  up  !   cheer  up  !  &c. 

Britannia's  pride  is  in  our  hearts, 
Her  blood  is  in  our  veins  — 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  309 

We'll  girdle  earth  with  British  arts, 
Like  Ariel's  magic  chains. 

CHOttVS. 

Cheer  up  !   cheer  up !    our  course  we'll  keep, 

With  dauntless  heart  and  hand ; 
And  when  we've  ploughed  the  stormy  deep, 

We'll  plough  a  smiling  land. 


MOONLIGHT. 

THE  kiss  that  would  make  a  maid's  cheek  flush 
Wroth,  as  if  kissing  were  a  sin 
Amidst  the  Argus  eyes  and  din 

And  tell-tale  glare  of  noon, 

Brings  but  a  murmur  and  a  blush, 

Beneath  the  modest  moon. 

Ye  days,  gone  —  never  to  come  back, 
When  love  returned  entranced  me  so, 
That  still  its  pictures  move  and  glow 
In  the  dark  chamber  of  my  heart ; 
Leave  not  my  memory's  future  track  — 
I  will  not  let  you  part. 

'Twas  moonlight,  when  my  earliest  love 
First  on  my  bosom  dropped  her  head; 
A  moment  then  concentrated 
The  bliss  of  years,  as  if  the  spheres 

Their  course  had  faster  driven, 
And  carried  Enoch-like  above, 
A  living  man  to  Heaven. 


810  CAMPBELL'S   POEM 

Tis  by  the  rolling  moon  we  measure, 
The  date  between  our  nuptial  night 
And  that  blest  hour  which  brings  to  light 
The  fruit  of  bliss  —  the  pledge  of  faith ; 
When  we  impress  upon  th°  treasure 
A  father's  earliest  kiss. 

The  Moon's  the  Earth's  enamored  bride ; 
True  to  him  in  her  very  changes, 
To  other  stars  she  never  ranges : 

Though,  crossed  by  him,  sometimes  she  dip* 
Her  light,  in  short  offended  pride, 
And  faints  to  an  eclipse. 

ite  fairies  revel  by  her  sheen ; 
'Tis  only  when  the  Moon's  above 
The  fire-fly  kindles  into  love, 

And  flashes  light  to  show  it : 
The  nightingale  salutes  her  Queen 
Of  Heaven,  her  heavenly  poet. 

Then  ye  that  love — by  moonlight  gloom 
Meet  at  my  grave,  and  plight  regard. 
Oh !   could  I  be  the  Orph6an  bard 

Of  whom  it  is  reported, 
That  nightingales  sung  o'er  his  tomb, 
Whilst  lovers  came  and  courted. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  311 


CORA  LINN,   OR  THE  FALLS  OF  THE 
CLYDE. 

WRITTEN   ON   REVISITING    IT   IN    1837. 

THE  time  I  saw  thee,  Cora,  last, 
'Twas  with  congenial  friends ; 

And  calmer  hours  of  pleasure  past 

My  memory  seldom  sends. 

It  was  as  sweet  an  Autumn  day 
As  ever  shone  on  Clyde, 
And  Lanark's  orchards  all  the  way, 
Put  forth  their  golden  pride ; 

Ev'n  hedges,  busk'd  in  bravery, 
Looked  rich  that  sunny  morn ; 
The  scarlet  hip  and  blackberry 
So  pranked  September's  thorn. 

In  Cora's  glen  the  calm  how  deep  ! 
The  trees  on  loftiest  hill 
Like  statues  stood,  or  things  asleep, 
All  motionless  and  still. 

The  torrent  spoke,  as  if  his  noise 
Bade  earth  be  quiet  round, 
And  give  his  loud  and  lonely  voice 
A  more  commanding  sound. 

His  foam,  beneath  the  yellow  light 
Of  noon,  came  down  like  one 
Continuous  sheet  of  jaspers  bright, 
Broad  rolling  by  the  sun. 


312  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 

Dear  Linn  !   let  loftier  falling  floods 
Have  prouder  names  than  thine ; 
And  king  of  all,  enthroned  in  woods, 
Let  Niagara  shine. 

Barbarian,  let  him  shake  his  coasts 
With  reeking  thunders  far, 
Extended  like  the  array  of  hosts 
In  broad,  embattled  war  ! 

His  voice  appalls  the  wilderness : 
Approaching  thine,  we  feel 
A  solemn,  doep  melodiousness, 
That  needs  no  louder  peal. 

More  fury  would  but  disenchant 
Thy  dream-inspiring  din ; 
Be  thou  the  Scottish  Muse's  haunt, 
Romantic  Cora  Linn. 


LINES    SUGGESTED    BY    THE    STATUE    OF 
ARNOLD   VON  WINKELRIED,* 

8TANZ-UNDEH.\TALDEN. 

INSPIRING  and  romantic  Switzers'  land, 
Though  marked  with  majesty  by  Nature's  hand, 
What  charm  ennobles  most  thy  landscape's  face  ?  — 
The  heroic  memory  of  thy  native  race    • 

•  For  an  account  of  this  patriotic  Swiss,  and  his  heroic  death  at  the 
battle  of  Sempach,  see  Dr.  Beattie's  "  Switzerland  Illustrated,"  vol.  ii, 
pp.  111-115. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  313 

Who  forced  tyrannic  hosts  to  bleed  or  flee ; 
And  made  their  rocks  the  ramparts  of  the  free ; 
Their  fastnesses  rolled  back  the  invading  tide 
Of  conquest,  and  their  mountains  taught  them  pride : 
Hence  they  have  patriot  names  —  in  fancy's  eye, 
Bright  as  their  glaciers  glittering  in  the  sky; 
Patriots  who  made  the  pageantries  of  kings 
Like  shadows  seem  and  unsubstantial  things, 
Their  guiltless  glory  mocks  oblivion's  rust, 
Imperishable,  for  their  cause  was  just. 

Heroes  of  old !   to  whom  the  Nine  have  strung 
Their  lyres,  and  spirit-stirring  anthems  sung; 
Heroes  of  chivalry  !    whose  banners  grace 
The  aisles  of  many  a  consecrated  place, 
Confess  how  few  of  you  can  match  in  fame 
The  martyr  Winkelried's  immortal  name  !  * 

*  The  advocates  of  classical  learning  tell  us  that,  without  classic 
historians,  we  should  never  become  acquainted  with  the  most  splendid 
traits  of  human  character ;  but  one  of  those  traits,  patriotic  self-devotion, 
may  surely  be  heard  of  elsewhere,  without  learning  Greek  and  Latin. 
There  are  few,  who  have  read  modern  history,  unacquainted  with  tho 
noble  voluntary  death  of  the  Switzcr  Winkelried.  Whether  he  was  a 
peasant  or  man  of  superior  birth,  is  a  point  not  quite  settled  in  history, 
though  I  am  inclined  to  suspect  that  he  was  simply  a  peasant.  But  this 
is  certain,  that  in  the  battle  of  Sempach,  perceiving  that  there  was  no 
other  means  of  breaking  the  heavy-armed  lines  of  the  Austrians  than 
by  gathering  as  many  of  their  spears  as  he  could  grasp  together,  he 
he  opened  a  passage  for  his  fellow  combatants,  who,  with  hammers  and 
hatchets,  hewed  down  the  mailed  men-at-arms,  and  won  the  victory 

27 


314  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS. 

SONG  OF  OUK  QUEEN. 

SET  TO  MUSIC  BY  CHARLES  NEATE,  ESQ.. 

VICTORIA'S  sceptre  o'er  the  deep 

Has  touched,  and  broken  slavery's  chain; 

Yet,  strange  magician !   she  enslaves 
Our  hearts  within  her  own  domain. 

Her  spirit  is  devout,  and  burns 
With  thoughts  averse  to  bigotry; 

Yet  she,  herself  the  idol,  turns 
Our  thoughts  into  idolatry. 


t 

LINES  ON  MY  NEW  CHILD-SWEETHEART. 

I  HOLD  it  a  religious  duty 
To  love  and  worship  children's  beauty ; 
They've  least  the  taint  of  earthly  clod, 
They're  freshest  from  the  hand  of  God ; 
With  heavenly  looks  they  make  us  sure 
The  heaven  that  made  them  must  be  pure; 
We  love  them  not  in  earthly  fashion, 
But  with  a  beatific  passion. 
I  chanced  to,  yesterday,  behold 
A  maiden  child  of  beauty's  mould ; 
'Twas  near,  more  sacred  was  the  scene, 
The  palace  of  our  patriot  Queen. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  315 

The  little  charmer,  to  my  view 
Was  sculpture  brought  to  life  anew; 
Her  eyes  had  a  poetic  glow, 
Her  pouting  mouth  was  Cupid's  bow : 
And  through  her  frock  I  could  descry 
Her  neck  and  shoulders'  symmetry. 
'Twas  obvious  from  her  walk  and  gait 
Her  limbs  were  beautifully  straight; 
I  stopped  the  enchantress,  and  was  told, 
Though  tall,  she  was  but  four  years  old. 
Her  guide  so  grave  an  aspect  wore 
I  could  not  ask  a  question  more ; 
But  followed  her.     The  little  one 
Threw  backward  ever  and  anon 
Her  lovely  neck,  as  if  to  say, 
"  I  know  you  love  me,  Mister  Grey ;  " 
For  by  its  instinct  childhood's  eye 
Is  shrewd  in  physiognomy ; 
They  well  distinguish  fawning  art 
From  sterling  fondness  of  the  heart. 

And  so  she  flirted,  like  a  true, 

Good  woman,  till  we  bade  adieu. 

Twas  then  I  with  regret  grew  wild, 

Oh,  beauteous,  interesting  child  ! 

Why  asked  I  not  thy  home  and  name  ? 

My  courage  failed  me  —  more's  the  shame. 

But  where  abides  this  jewel  rare  ? 

Oh,  ye  that  own  her,  tell  me  where ! 

For  sad  it  makes  my  heart  and  sore 

To  think  I  ne'er  may  meet  her  more. 


316  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 


TO  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  NORTH 
AMERICA. 

UNITED  STATES,  your  banner  wears 
Two  emblems  —  one  of  fame  ; 

Alas,  the  other  that  it  bears 
Reminds  us  of  your  shame. 

Your  standard's  constellation  types 

White  freedom  by  its  stars ; 
But  what's  the  meaning  of  the  stripes  ? 

They  mean  your  negroes'  scars. 


THE    LAUNCH    OF    A    FIRST-RATE. 

WRITTEN    ON    WITNESSING   THE    SPECTACLE. 

ENGLAND  hails  thee  with  emotion, 

Mightiest  child  of  naval  art, 
Heaven  resounds  thy  welcome  !     Ocean 

Takes  thee  smiling  to  his  heart. 

Giant  oaks  of  bold  expansion 

O'er  seven  hundred  acres  fell, 
All  to  build  thy  noble  mansion, 

Where  our  hearts  of  oak  shall  dwell. 

'Midst  those  trees  the  wild  deer  bounded, 
Ages  long  ere  we  were  born, 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  317 

And  our  great-grandfathers  sounded 
Many  a  jovial  hunting-horn. 

Oaks  that  living  did  inherit 

Grandeur  from  our  earth  and  sky, 
Still  robust,  the  native  spirit. 

In  your  timbers  shall  not  die. 

Ship  to  shine  in  martial  story, 

Thou  shalt  cleave  the  ocean's  path, 
Freighted  with  Britannia's  glory 

And  the  thunders  of  her  wrath. 

Foes  shall  crowd  their  sails  and  fly  thee, 

Threatening  havoc  to  their  deck, 
When  afar  they  first  descry  thee, 

Like  the  coming  whirlwind's  speck. 

Gallant  bark  !   thy  pomp  and  beauty 

Storm  or  battle  ne'er  shall  blast, 
Whilst  our  tars  in  pride  and  duty 

Nail  thy  colors  to  the  mast. 


EPISTLE  FROM  ALGIERS. 

TO   HORACE   SMITH. 

DEAR  HORACE  !   be  melted  to  tears, 
For  I'm  melting  with  heat  as  I  rhyme ; 

Though  the  name  of  this  place  is  All-jeers, 
'Tis  no  joke  to  fall  in  with  its  clime. 
27* 


318 


With  a  shaver*  from  France  who  came  o'er, 

To  an  African  inn  I  ascend ; 
I  am  cast  on  a  barbarous  shore, 

Where  a  barber  alone  is  my  friend. 

Do  you  ask  me  the  sights  and  the  news 

Of  this  wonderful  city  to  sing? 
Alas  !   my  hotel  has  its  mews, 

But  no  muse  of  the  Helicon's  spring. 

My  windows  afford  me  the  sight 

Of  a  people  all  diverse  in  hue ; 
They  are  black,  yellow,  olive,  and  white, 

Whilst  I  in  my  sorrow  look  blue. 

Here  are  groups  for  the  painter  to  take, 
Whose  figures  jocosely  combine,  — 

The  Arab  disguised  in  his  haik,f 

And  the  Frenchman  disguised  in  his  wine. 

In  his  breeches  of  petticoat  size 

You  may  say  as  the  Mussulman  goes, 

That  his  garb  is  a  fair  compromise 

"Twixt  a  kilt  and  a  pair  of  small  clothes. 

The  Mooresses,  shrouded  in  white, 

Save  two  holes  for  their  eyes  to  give  room, 

Seem  like  corpses  in  sport  or  in  spite 

That  have  slyly  whipped  out  of  their  tomb. 


*  On  board  the  vessel  from  Marseilles  to  Algiers  I  met  with  a  fellow* 
passenger,  whom  I  supposed  to  be  a  physician,  from  his  dress  and  man* 
ners,  and  the  attentions  which  he  paid  me  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of 
my  sea-sickness.  He  turned  out  to  be  a  perruquier  and  barber  la 
Algeria  —  but  his  vocation  did  not  lower  him  in  my  estimation  —  for  he 
coutinued  his  attentions  till  he  passed  my  baggage  through  the  customs, 
and  helped  me,  when  half  dead  with  exhaustalion,  to  the  best  hotel. 

t  A  mantle  worn  by  the  natives. 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  319 

The  old  Jewish  dames  make  me  sick : 

If  I  were  the  devil,  I  declare 
Such  hags  should  not  mount  a  broom-stick 

In  my  service  to  ride  through  the  air 

But  nipped  and  undined  as  I  am, 

My  hippogriff's  course  I  must  rein,  — 

For  the  pain  of  my  thirst  is  no  sham, 

Though  I'm  bawling  aloud  for  champagne. 

Dinner's  brought ;   but  the  wines  have  no  pith ; 

They  are  flat  as  the  statutes  at  law; 
And  for  all  that  they  bring  me,  dear  Smith! 

Would  a  glass  of  brown  stout  they  could  draw ! 

O'er  each  French  trashy  dish  as  I  bend, 

My  heart  feels  a  patriot's  grief ! 
And  the  round  tears,  O  England  !    descend 

When  I  think  on  a  round  of  thy  beef. 

Yes,  my  soul  sentimentally  craves 
British  beer  !     Hail,  Britannia,  hail ! 

To  thy  flag  on  the  foam  of  the  waves, 
And  the  foam  on  thy  flagons  of  ale. 

Yet  I  own,  in  this  hour  of  my  drought, 
A  dessert  has  most  welcomely  come ; 

Here  are  peaches  that  melt  in  the  mouth, 
And  grapes  blue  and  big  as  a  plum. 

There  are  melons,  too,  luscious  and  great, 

But  the  slices  I  eat  shall  be  few, 
For  from  melons  incautiously  eat 

Melancholic  eifects  may  ensue. 

Horrid  pun  !   you'll  exclaim  ;   but  be  calm, 
Though  my  letter  bears  date,  as  you  view, 

From  the  land  of  the  date-bearing  palm 
I  will  palm  no  more  puns  upon  you. 


320  CAMPBELL'S    POEMS. 


TO    A   YOUNG   LADY, 

•WHO   ASKED   ME  TO   WHITE     SOMETHING   ORIGINAL    FOB    HBB 
ALBUM. 

AN  original  something,  fair  maid,  you  would  win  me 

To  write  —  but  how  shall  I  begin  ? 
For  I  fear  I  have  nothing  original  in  me  — 

Excepting  Original  Sin. 


FRAGMENT    OF    AN    ORATORIO, 

FROM  THE   BOOK   OP  JOB. 

HAVINO  met  my  illustrious  friend  the  Composer  Neukomm,  at  Algiers, 
several  years  ago,  I  commenced  this  intended  Oratorio  at  his  desire,  but 
he  left  the  place  before  I  proceeded  farther  in  the  poem;  and  it  has  bee»i 
thus  left  unfinished. 

CRUSHED  by  misfortune's  yoke, 

Job  lamentably  spoke  :  — 

"My  boundless  curse  be  on 

The  day  that  I  was  born; 

Quenched  be  the  star  that  shone 

Upon  my  natal  mom. 

In  the  grave  I  long 

To  shroud  my  breast ; 

Where  the  wicked  cease  to  wrong, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest." 


CAMPBELL'S    POEMS.  321 

Then  Eliphaz  rebuked  his  wild  despair:  — 
"  What  Heaven  ordains,  'tis  meet  that  man 

should  bear. 

Lately,  at  midnight  drear, 
A  vision  shook  my  bones  with  fear; 
A  spirit  passed  before  my  face, 
And  yet  its  form  I  could  not  trace ; 
It  stopped,  it  stood,  it  chilled  my  blood, 
The  hair  upon  my  flesh  uprose 
With  'freezing  dread ! 
Deep  silence  reigned,  and  at  its  close 
I  heard  a  voice  that  said  — 
« Shall  mortal  man  be  more  pure  and  just 
Than  God,  who  made  him  from  the  dust  ? 
Hast  thou  not  learned  of  old,  how  fleet 
Is  the  triumph  of  the  hypocrite?  — 
How  soon  the  wreath  of  joy  grows  wan 
On  the  brow  of  the  ungodly  man  ?• 
By  the  fire  of  his  conscience  he  perisheth 
In  an  unblown  flame : 
The  Earth  demands  his  death, 
And  the  Heavens  reveal  his  shame.'  '* 


Is  this  your  consolation? 

Is  it  thus  that  ye  condole 

With  the  depth  of  my  desolation, 

And  the  anguish  of  my  soul ! 

But  I  will  not  cease  to  wail 

The  bitterness  of  my  bale. 

Man  that  is  born  of  woman, 

Short  and  evil  is  his  hour; 

He  fleeth  like  a  shadow, 

He  fadeth  like  a  flower. 

My  days  are  past;   my  hope  and  trust 

Ts  but  to  moulder  in  the  dust. 


322  CAMPBELL'S   POEMS* 

CHORUS. 

Bow,  mortal,  bow,  before  thy  God, 

Nor  murmur  at  his  chastening  rod ; 

Fragile  being  of  earthly  clay, 

Think  on  God's  eternal  sway ! 

Hark !   from  the  whirlwind  forth 

Thy  Maker  speaks  -*-  "  Thou  child  of  earth, 

Where  wert  thou  when  I  laid 

Creation's  corner-stone? 

When  the  sons  of  God  rejoicing  made, 

And  the  morning  stars  together  sang  and  shone  ? 

Hadst  thou  power  to  bid  above 

Heaven's  constellations  glow; 

Or  shape  the  forms  that  live  and  move 

On  Nature's  face  below? 

Hast  thou  given  the  horse  his  strength  and  pride  ? 

He  paws  the  valley  with  nostril  wide, 

He  smells  far  off  the  battle ; 

He  neighs  at  the  trumpet's  sound  — 

And  his  speed  devours  the  ground, 

As  he  sweeps  to  where  the  quivers  rattle, 

And  the  spear  and  shield  shine  bright, 

'Midst  the  shouting  of  the  captains 

And  the  thunder  of  the  fight. 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


P.  38,  1.  13. 

And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore  — 

THE  following  picture  of  his  own  distress,  given  by 
BYIION  in  liis  simple  and  interesting  narrative,  justifies 
the  description  in  page  5. 

After  relating  the  barbarity  of  the  Indian  cacique  to  his 
child,  he  proceeds  thus  :  —  «  A  day  or  two  after  we  put  to 
sea  again,  and  crossed  the  great  bay  I  mentioned  we  had 
been  at  the  bottom  of  when  we  first  hauled  away  to  the 
westward.  The  land  here  was  very  low  and  sandy,  and 
something  like  the  mouth  of  a  river  which  discharged  it 
self  into  the  sea,  and  which  had  been  taken  no  notice  of 
by  us  before,  as  it  was  so  shallow  that  the  Indians  were 
obliged  to  take  every  thing  out  of  their  canoes,  and  carry 
them  over  land.  We  rowed  up  the  river  four  or  five 
leagues,  and  then  took  into  a  branch  of  it  that  ran  first  to 
the  eastward,  and  then  to  the  northward :  here  it  became 
much  narrower,  and  the  stream  excessively  rapid,  so  that 
we  gained  but  little  way,  though  we  wrought  very  hard. 
At  night  we  landed  upon  its  banks,  and  had  a  most  un 
comfortable  lodging,  it  being  a  perfect  swamp,  and  we  had 
28 


326  NOTES. 

nothing  to  cover  us,  though  it  rained  excessively.  The 
Indians  were  little  better  off  than  we,  as  there  was  no 
wood  here  to  make  their  wigwams  ;  so  that  all  they  could 
do  was  to  prop  up  the  bark,  which  they  carry  in  the  bot 
tom  of  their  canoes,  and  shelter  themselves  as  well  as  they 
could  to  the  leeward  of  it.  Knowing  the  difficulties  they 
had  to  encounter  here,  they  had  provided  themselves  with 
some  seal ;  but  we  had  not  a  morsel  to  eat,  after  the  heavy 
fatigues  of  the  day,  excepting  a  sort  of  root  we  saw  the 
Indians  make  use  of,  which  was  very  disagreeable  to  the 
taste.  We  labored  all  next  day  against  the  stream,  and 
fared  as  we  had  done  the  day  before.  The  next  day 
brought  us  to  the  carrying  place.  Here  was  plenty  of 
wood,  but  nothing  to  be  got  for  sustenance.  We  passed 
this  night,  as  we  had  frequently  done,  under  a  tree  ;  but 
what  we  suffered  at  this  time  is  not  easy  to  be  expressed. 
I  had  been  three  days  at  the  oar  without  any  kind  of  nour 
ishment  except  the  wretched  root  above  mentioned.  I  had 
no  shirt,  for  it  had  rotted  off  by  bits.  All  my  clothes  con 
sisted  of  a  short  grieko,  (something  like  a  bear-skin,)  a 
piece  of  red  cloth  which  had  once  been  a  waistcoat,  and  a 
ragged  pair  of  trousers,  without  shoes  or  stockings." 

P.  38,  1.  32. 
a  Briton  and  a  friend  ! 

Don  Patricio  Gedd,  a  Scotch  physician  in  one  of  the 
Spanish  settlements,  hospitably  relieved  Byron  and  his 
wretched  associates,  of  which  the  Commodore  speaks  in 
the  warmest  terms  of  gratitude. 


NOTES.  327 

P.  39,  1.  12. 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heaven  another  string. 

The  seven  strings  of  Apollo's  harp  were  the  symbolical 
representation  of  the  seven  planets.  Herschel,  by  discov 
ering  an  eighth,  might  be  said  to  add  another  string  tc  the 
instrument. 

P.  39,  1.  13. 

The  Sivedish  sage. 

P.  40,  1.  1. 
Deep  from  his  vaults  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow. 

Loxias  id  the  name  frequently  given  to  Apollo  by  Greek 
writers.  It  is  met  with  more  than  once  in  the  Choephorae 
of  ^schyl'is. 

P.  41,  1.  1. 

UnlocJcs  a  generous  store  at  thy  command, 
Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand. 

See  Exodus,  chap.  xvii.  3,  5,  6. 

P.  45,  1.  16. 
Wild  Obi  flies  — 

Among  the  negroes  of  the  West  Indies,  Obi,  or  Orbiah, 
5*  the  name  of  a  magical  power,  which  is  believed  by  them 
to  affect  the  object  of  its  malignity  with  dismal  calamities. 
Such  a  belief  must  undoubtedly  have  been  deduced  from 
th<>  superstitious  mythology  of  their  kinsmen  on  the  coast 
of  Africa.  I  have,  therefore,  personified  Obi  as  the  evil 


328  NOTES. 

spirit  of  the  African,  although  the  history  of  the  African 
tribes  mentions  the  evil  spirit  of  their  religious  creed  by  a 
different  appellation. 

P.  45,  1.  20. 
Sibir's  dreary  mines. 

Mr.  Bell,  of  Antermony,  in  liis  Travels  through  Siberia, 
informs  us  that  the  name  of  the  country  is  universally 
pronounced  Sibir  by  the  Russians. 

P.  45,  1.  34. 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland  —  and  to  man ! 

The  history  of  the  partition  of  Poland,  of  the  massacre 
in  the  suburbs  of  Warsaw,  and  on  the  bridge  of  Prague, 
the  triumphant  entry  of  Suwarrow  into  the  Polish  capital, 
and  the  insult  offered  to  human  nature,  by  the  blasphe 
mous  thanks  offered  up  to  Heaven,  for  victories  obtained 
over  men  fighting  in  the  sacred  cause  of  liberty,  by  mur 
derers  and  oppressors,  are  events  generally  known. 

P.  50,  1.  31. 
The  shrill  horn  blew. 

The  negroes  in  the  West  Indies  are  summoned  to  theil 
morning  work  by  a  shell  or  horn. 

P.  51,  1.  16. 

How  long  was   Timour's  iron  sceptre  swayed. 
To  elucidate  this  passage,  I  shall  subjoin  a  quotation 


NOTES.  329 

from  the  preface  to  Letters  from  a  Hindoo  Rajah,  a  work 
of  elegance  and  celebrity. 

"  The  impostor  of  Mecca  had  established,  as  one  of  the 
principles  of  his  doctrine,  the  merit  of  extending  it,  either 
by  persuasion,  or  the  sword,  to  all  parts  of  the  earth. 
How  steadily  this  injunction  was  adhered  to  by  his  fol 
lowers,  and  with  what  success  it  was  pursued,  is  well 
known  to  all  who  are  in  the  least  conversant  in  history. 

"  The  same  overwhelming  torrent  which  had  inundated 
the  greater  part  of  Africa,  burst  its  way  into  the  very  heart 
of  Europe,  and  covering  many  kingdoms  of  Asia  with  un 
bounded  desolation,  directed  its  baneful  course  to  the 
flourishing  provinces  of  Ilindostan.  Here  these  fierce 
and  hardy  adventurers,  whose  only  improvement  had 
been  in  the  science  of  destruction,  who  added  the  fury 
of  fanaticism  to  the  ravages  of  Avar,  found  the  great  end 
of  their  conquest  opposed  by  objects  which  neither  the 
ardor  of  their  persevering  zeal,  nor  savage  barbarity,  could 
surmount.  Multitudes  were  sacrificed  by  the  cruel  hand 
of  religious  persecution,  and  whole  countries  were  deluged 
in  blood,  in  the  vain  hope,  that  by  the  destruction  of  a 
part  the  remainder  might  be  persuaded,  or  terrified,  into 
the  profession  of  Mahomedism.  But  all  these  sanguinary 
efforts  were  ineffectual ;  and  at  length,  being  fully  con 
vinced,  that  though  they  might  extirpate,  they  could  never 
hope  to  convert,  any  number  of  the  Hindoos,  they  relin 
quished  the  impracticable  idea  with  which  they  had 
entered  upon  their  career  of  conquest,  and  contented 
themselves  with  the  acquirement  of  the  civil  dominion 
and  almost  universal  empire  of  Hindostan.'  —  Letters 
from  a  Hindoo  Rajah,  by  Eliza  Hamilton. 
28* 


330  NOTES. 

P.  51, 1.  30. 

And  braved  the  stormy  Spirit  of  the  Cape. 

See  the  description  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  trans 
lated  from  CAMOENS,  by  MICKLE. 

P.  52,  1.  10. 
While  famished  nations  died  along  the  shore. 

The  following  account  of  British  conduct,  and  its  conse 
quences,  in  Bengal,  will  afford  a  sufficient  idea  of  the  fact 
alluded  to  in  this  passage. 

After  describing  the  monopoly  of  salt,  betel-nut,  and 
tobacco,  the  historian  proceeds  thus  :  —  "  Money  in  this 
current  came  but  by  drops  ;  it  could  not  quench  the  thirst 
of  those  who  waited  in  India  to  receive  it.  An  expedient, 
such  as  it  was,  remained  to  quicken  its  pace.  The  natives 
could  live  with  little  salt,  but  could  not  want  food.  Some 
of  the  agents  saw  themselves  well  situated  for  collecting 
the  rice  into  stores  :  they  did  so.  They  knew  the  Gentoos 
would  rather  die  than  violate  the  principles  of  their  reli 
gion  by  eating  flesh.  The  alternative  would  therefore  be 
between  giving  what  they  had,  or  dying.  The  inhabitants 
sunk :  they  that  cultivated  the  land,  and  saw  the  harvest 
at  the  disposal  of  others,  planted  in  doubt :  —  scarcity 
ensued.  Then  the  monopoly  was  easier  managed:  — 
sickness  ensued.  In  some  districts,  the  languid  living 
left  the  bodies  of  their  numerous  dead  unburied."  — 
Short  History  of  the  English  Transactions  in  the  East  In 
dies,  p.  145. 


NOTES.  331 

P.  52,  1.  25. 

Nine  times  have  Brama's  wheels  of  lightning  hurled 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world. 

Among  the  sublime  fictions  of  the  Hindoo  mythology, 
it  is  one  article  of  belief,  that  the  Deity  Brama  has  de 
scended  nine  times  upon  the  world  in  various  forms,  and 
that  he  is  yet  to  appear  a  tenth  time,  in  the  figure  of  a 
•warrior  upon  a  white  horse,  to  cut  off  all  incorrigible  of 
fenders.  Avatar  is  the  word  used  to  express  his  descent. 

P.  53,  1.  10. 

Shall  Seriswattee  wave  her  hallowed  wand! 
And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganesa  sublime. 

Camdeo  is  the  God  of  Love  in  the  mythology  of  the 
Hindoos.  Ganesa  and  "Seriswattee  correspond  to  the  pagan 
deities,  Janus  and  Minerva. 

P.  58,  1.  32. 

The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade!  — 
Sacred  to  Venus  is  the  myrtle  shade.  —  Dryden. 

P.  61,  1.  19. 
Thy  woes,  Arion! 

Falconer,  in  his  poem,  "  The  Shipwreck,"  speaks  of 
himself  by  the  name  of  Arion.  —  See  Falconer's  "  Ship 
wreck,"  canto  iii. 

P.  61,  1.  32. 
The  robber  Moor! 
See  Schiller's  tragedy  of  "  The  Robbers,"  scene  v 


33S  NOTES. 

P.  62, 1.  16. 
What  millions  died  —  that  Ccesar  might  be  great ! 

The  carnage  occasioned  by  the  wars  of  Julius  Caesar  has 
been  usually  estimated  at  two  millions  of  men. 

P.  62,  1.  17. 

Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thousands  bore, 
Marched  by  their  Charles  to  Dnieper's  swampy  shore. 

"In  this  extremity,"  (says  the  biographer  of  Charles 
XJI.  of  Sweden,  speaking  of  his  military  exploits  before 
the  battle  of  Pultowa,)  "  the  memorable  winter  of  1709, 
which  was  still  more  remarkable  in  that  part  of  Enrope 
than  in  France,  destroyed  numbers  of  his  troops ;  for 
Charles  resolved  to  brave  the  seasons,  as  he  had  done  his 
enemies,  and  ventured  to  make  long  marches  during  this 
mortal  cold.  It  was  in  one  of  these  marches  that  two 
thousand  men  fell  down  dead  with  cold  before  his  eyes." 

P.  63,  1.  7. 
As  lona's  saint. 

The  natives  of  the  island  of  lona  have  an  opinion,  that 
on  certain  evenings  every  year,  the  tutelary  saint  Columba 
is  seen  on  the  top  of  the  church  spires  counting  the  sur 
rounding  islands,  to  see  that  they  have  not  been  sunk  by 
the  power  of  witchcraft. 

P.  63,  1.  26. 
And  part,  like  Ajut  —  never  to  return  ! 

See  the  history  of  Ajut  and  Anningait,  in  "  The  Ram 
bler." 


NOTES.  333 

P.  76,  1.  6. 
From  merry  mock-bird's  song. 

The  mocking-bird  is  of  the  form  of,  but  larger  than,  the 
thrush ;  and  the  colors  are  a  mixture  of  black,  white,  and 
gray.  What  is  said  of  the  nightingale  by  its  greatesi 
admirers  is  what  may  with  more  propriety  apply  to  this 
bird,  who,  in  a  natural  state,  sings  with  very  superior 
taste.  Towards  evening  I  have  heard  one  begin  softly, 
reserving  its  breath  to  swell  certain  notes,  which,  by  this 
means,  had  a  most  astonishing  effect.  A  gentleman  in 
London  had  one  of  these  birds  for  six  years.  During  the 
space  of  a  minute  he  was  heard  to  imitate  the  woodlark, 
chaffinch,  blackbird,  thrush,  and  sparrow.  In  this  country 
(America)  I  have  frequently  known  the  mocking-birds  so 
engaged  in  this  mimicry,  that  it  was  with  much  difficulty 
I  could  ever  obtain  an  opportunity  of  hearing  their  own 
natural  note.  Some  go  so  far  as  to  say,  that  they  have 
neither  peculiar  notes,  nor  favorite  imitations.  This  may 
be  denied.  Their  few  natural  notes  resemble  those  of  the 
(European)  nightingale.  Their  song,  however,  has  a 
greater  compass  and  volume  than  the  nightingale's,  and 
they  have  the  faculty  of  varying  all  intermediate  notes 
in  a  manner  which  is  truly  delightful.  —  Ashe's  Travels  in 
America,  vol.  ii.  p.  73. 

P.  76,  1.  27. 
And  distant  isles  that  hear  the  loud  Corbrechtan  roar! 

The  Corybrcchtan,  or  Corbrechtan,  is  a  whirlpool  on 
the  western  coast  of  Scotland,  near  the  island  of  Jura, 
which  is  heard  at  a  prodigious  distance.  Its  name  signifies 


334  NOTES. 

the  whirlpool  of  the  Prince  of  Denmark  ;  and  there  is  a 
tradition  that  a  Danish  prince  once  undertook,  for  a 
wager,  to  cast  anchor  in  it.  He  is  said  to  have  used 
woollen  instead  of  hempen  ropes,  for  greater  strength,  but 
perished  in  the  attempt.  On  the  shores  of  Argyleshire,  I 
have  often  listened  with  great  delight  to  the  sound  of  this 
vortex,  at  the  distance  of  many  leagues.  When  the 
weather  is  calm,  and  the  adjacent  sea  scarcely  heard  on 
these  picturesque  shores,  its  sound,  which  is  like  the 
sound  of  innumerable  chariots,  creates  a  magnificent  and 
fine  effect. 

P.  79,  1.  8. 
Of  buskined  limb,  and  swarthy  lineament. 

In  the  Indian  tribes  there  is  a  great  similarity  in  their 
color,  stature,  &c.  They  are  all,  except  the  Snake 
Indians,  tall  in  stature,  straight,  and  robust.  It  is  very 
seldom  they  are  deformed,  which  has  given  rise  to  the 
supposition  that  they  put  to  death  their  deformed  chil 
dren.  Their  skin  is  of  a  copper  color ;  their  eyes  large, 
bright,  black,  and  sparkling,  indicative  of  a  subtle  and 
discerning  mind :  their  hair  is  of  the  same  color,  and 
prone  to  be  long,  seldom  or  never  curled.  Their  teeth 
are  large  and  white  ;  I  never  observed  any  decayed 
among  them,  which  makes  their  breath  as  sweet  as  the 
air  they  inhale.  —  Travels  through  America  by  Captains 
Lewis  and  Clarke  in  1804-5-6. 

P.  79,  1.  19. 

«'  Peace  be  to  tJiee  I   my  words  this  belt  approve. 
The  Indians  \  -f  North  America  accompany  every  formal 


NOTES.  335 

address  to  strangers,  with  whom  they  form  or  recognize  a 
treaty  of  amity,  with  a  present  of  a  string,  or  belt,  of 
wampum  Wampum  (says  Cadwallader  Golden)  is  made 
of  the  large  whelk  shell,  buccinum,  and  shaped  like  long 
beads :  it  is  the  current  money  of  the  Indians.  —  History 
of  the  Five  Indian  Nations,  p.  34,  New  York  edition. 

P.  79,  1.  20. 
The  paths  of  peace  my  steps  have  hither  led. 

In  relating  an  interview  of  Mohawk  Indians  with  the 
Governor  of  New  York,  Golden  quotes  the  following 
passage  as  a  specimen  of  their  metaphorical  manner : 
"Where  shall  I  seek  the  chair  of  peace?  Where  shall 
I  find  it  but  upon  our  path  ?  and  whither  doth  our  path 
lead  us  but  unto  this  house  ?  " 

P.  79,  1.  24. 
Our  wampum  league  thy  brethren  did  embrace. 

When  they  solicit  the  alliance,  offensive  or  defensive, 
of  a  whole  nation,  they  send  an  embassy  with  a  large 
belt  of  wampum  and  a  bloody  hatchet,  inviting  them  to 
come  and  drink  the  blood  of  their  enemies.  The  wam 
pum  made  use  of  on  these  and  other  occasions,  before 
their  acquaintance  with  the  Europeans,  was  nothing  but 
small  shells  which  they  picked  up  by  the  sea  coasts,  and 
on  the  banks  of  the  lakes ;  and  now  it  is  nothing  but  a 
kind  of  cylindrical  beads,  made  of  shells,  white  and  black, 
which  are  esteemed  among  them  as  silver  and  gold  are 
among  us.  The  black  they  call  the  most  valuable,  and 
both  together  are  their  greatest  riches  and  ornaments ; 


336  NOTES. 

these  among  them  answering  all  the  end  that  money  does 
amongst  us.  They  have  the  art  of  stringing,  twisting, 
and*  interweaving  them  into  their  belts,  collars,  blankets, 
and  moccasins,  &c.,  in  ten  thousand  different  sizes,  forms, 
and  figures,  so  as  to  be  ornaments  for  every  part  of  dress, 
and  expressive  to  them  of  all  their  important  transactions. 
They  dye  the  wampum  of  various  colors  and  shades,  and 
mix  and  dispose  them  with  great  ingenuity  and  order,  and 
so  as  to  be  significant  among  themselves  of  almost  every 
thing  they  please  ;  so  that  by  these  their  words  are  kept, 
and  their  thoughts  communicated  to  one  another,  as  ours 
are  by  writing.  The  belts  that  pass  from  one  nation  to 
another  in  all  treaties,  declarations,  and  important  trans 
actions,  are  very  carefully  preserved  in  the  cabins  of  their 
chiefs,  and  serve  not  only  as  a  kind  of  record  or  history, 
but  as  a  public  treasure.  —  Major  Rogers' 3  Account  of  North 
America. 

P.  80,  1.  14. 
As  when  the  evil  Manitou 

It  is  certain  the  Indians  acknowledge  one  Supreme 
Being,  or  Giver  of  Life,  who  presides  over  all  things ; 
that  is,  the  Great  Spirit ;  and  they  look  up  to  him  as  the 
source  of  good,  from  whence  no  evil  can  proceed.  They 
also  believe  in  a  bad  Spirit,  to  whom  they  ascribed  great 
power ;  and  suppose  that  through  his  power  all  the  evils 
which  befall  mankind  are  afflicted.  To  him,  therefore, 
they  pray  in  their  distresses,  begging  that  he  would 
either  avert  their  troubles,  or  moderate  them  when  they 
axe  no  longer  avoidable. 

They  hold  also  that  there  are  good  Spirits  of  a  lower 


NOTES.  337 

degree,  who  have  their  particular  departments,  in  which 
they  are  constantly  contributing  to  the  happiness  of 
mortals.  These  they  suppose  to  preside  over  all*  the 
extraordinary  productions  of  Nature,  such  as  those  lakes, 
rivers,  and  mountains  that  are  of  an  uncommon  magni 
tude ;  and  likewise  the  beasts,  birds,  fishes,  and  even 
vegetables  or  stones,  that  exceed  the  rest  of  their  species 
in  size  or  singularity.  —  Clarke's  Travels  among  the  Indians. 
The  Supreme  Spirit  of  Good  is  called  by  the  Indians 
Kitchi  Manitou  ;  and  the  Spirit  of  Evil,  Matchi  Manitou. 

P.  81,  1.  2. 

Of  fever-balm  and  sweet  sagamite  : 

The  fever-balm  is  a  medicine  used  by  these  tribes ;  it 
is  a  decoction  of  a  bush  called  the  Fever  Tree.  Sagamite 
is  a  kind  of  soup  administered  to  their  sick. 

P.  81,  1.  10. 

And  I,  the  eagle  of  my  tribe,  have  ruslied 
With  this  lorn  dove. 

The  testimony  of  all  travellers  among  the  American 
Indians  who  mention  their  hieroglyphics,  authorizes  me 
in  putting  this  figurative  language  in  the  mouth  of  Outal- 
lissL  The  dove  is  among  them,  as  elsewhere,  an  emblem 
of  meekness ;  and  the  eagle  that  of  a  bold,  noble,  and 
liberal  mind.  When  the  Indians  speak  of  a  warrior  who 
soars  above  the  multitude  in  person  and  endowments,  they 
say,  «  he  is  like  the  eagle,  who  destroys  his  enemies,  and 
gives  protection  and  abundance  to  the  weak  of  his  own 
tribe." 

29 


338  NOTES. 

P.  82,  1.  11. 
Far  differently,  the  mute   Oneida  took,  §c. 

They  are  extremely  circumspect  and  deliberate  in  every 
-word  and  action ;  nothing  hurries  them  into  any  intem 
perate  wrath,  but  that  inveteracy  to  their  enemies  which 
is  rooted  in  every  Indian's  breast.  In  all  other  instances 
they  are  cool  and  deliberate,  taking  care  to  suppress  the 
emotions  of  the  heart.  If  an  Indian  has  discovered  that  a 
friend  of  his  is  in  danger  of  being  cut  off  by  a  lurking 
enemy,  he  does  not  tell  him  of  his  danger  in  direct  terms, 
as  though  he  were  in  fear,  but  he  first  coolly  asks  him 
which  way  he  is  going  that  day,  and  having  his  answer, 
with  the  same  indifference,  tells  him  that  he  has  been 
informed  that  a  noxious  beast  lies  on  the  route  he  is  going. 
This  hint  proves  sufficient,  and  his  friend  avoids  tho 
danger  with  as  much  caution  as  though  every  design  and 
motion  of  his  enemy  had  been  pointed  out  to  him. 

If  an  Indian  has  been  engaged  for  several  days  in  the 
chase,  and  by  accident  continued  long  without  food, 
when  he  arrives  at  the  hut  of  a  friend,  where  he  knows 
that  his  wants  -will  be  immediately  supplied,  he  takes 
care  not  to  show  the  least  symptoms  of  impatience,  ctr 
betray  the  extreme  hunger  that  he  is  tortured  with  ;  but 
on  being  invited  in,  sits  contentedly  down,  and  smokes 
his  pipe  with  as  much  composure  as  if  his  appetite  was 
cloyed,  and  he  was  perfectly  at  ease.  He  does  the  same 
if  among  strangers.  This  custom  is  strictly  adhered  to  by 
every  tribe,  as  they  esteem  it  a  proof  of  fortitude,  and 
think  the  reverse  would  entitle  them  to  the  appellation 
of  old  women. 


NOTES.  339 

If  you  tell  an  Indian  that  his  children  have  greatly 
signalized  themselves  against  an  enemy,  having  taker, 
many  scalps,  and  brought  home  many  prisoners,  he  does 
not  appear  to  feel  any  strong  emotions  of  pleasure  on  the 
occasion ;  his  answer  generally  is,  —  "  They  have  done 
well,"  and  he  makes  but  very  little  inquiry  about  the 
matter ;  on  the  contrary,  if  you  inform  him  that  his 
children  are  slain  or  taken  prisoners,  he  makes  no  com 
plaints  :  he  only  replies,  "  It  is  unfortunate  :  "  —  and  for 
some  tune  asks  no  questions  about  how  it  happened.  — 
Lewis  and  Clarke's  Travels. 

P.  82,  1.  12. 
His  calumet  of  peace,  $c. 

Nor  is  the  calumet  of  less  importance  or  less  revered 
than  the  wampum  in  many  transactions  relative  both  to 
peace  and  war.  The  bowl  of  this  pipe  is  made  of  a  kind 
of  soft  red  stone,  which  is  easily  wrought  and  hollowed 
out ;  the  stem  is  of  cane,  alder,  or  some  kind  of  light 
wood,  painted  with  different  colors,  and  decorated  with 
the  heads,  tails,  and  feathers  of  the  most  beautiful  birds. 
The  use  of  the  calumet  is  to  smoke  either  tobacco,  or 
some  bark,  leaf,  or  herb,  which  they  often  use  instead  of 
it,  when  they  enter  into  an  alliance  on  any  serious  occasion 
or  solemn  engagements  ;  this  being  among  them  the  most 
sacred  oath  that  can  be  taken,  the  violation  of  which  is 
esteemed  most  infamous,  and  deserving  of  severe  punish 
ment  from  Heaven.  When  they  treat  of  war,  the  whole 
pipe  and  aH  its  ornaments  are  red :  sometimes  it  is  red 
only  on  one  side,  and  by  the  disposition  of  the  feathers,  &c., 


340  NOTES. 

one  acquainted  with  their  customs  will  know  at  first 
sight  what  the  nation  who  presents  it  intends  or  desires. 
Smoking  the  calumet  is  also  a  religious  ceremony  on  some 
occasions,  and  in  all  treaties  is  considered  as  a  witness 
between  the  parties,  or  rather  as  an  instrument  by  which 
they  invoke  the  sun  and  moon  to  witness  their  sincerity, 
and  to  be  as  it  were  a  guarantee  of  the  treaty  between 
them.  This  custom  of  the  Indians,  though  to  appearance 
somewhat  ridiculous,  is  not  without  its  reasons ;  for  as 
they  find  that  smoking  tends  to  disperse  the  vapors  of  the 
brain,  to  raise  the  spirits,  and  to  qualify  them  for  thinking 
and  judging  properly,  they  introduced  it  into  their 
councils,  where,  after  their  resolves,  the  pipe  was  con 
sidered  as  a  seal  of  their  decrees,  and  as  a  pledge  of  their 
performance  thereof  it  was  sent  to  those  they  were  con 
sulting,  in  alliance  or  treaty  with ;  —  so  that  smoking 
among  them  at  the  same  pipe,  is  equivalent  to  our  drink 
ing  together,  and  out  of  the  same  cup.  —  Major  Rogers' s 
Account  of  North  America,  1766. 

The  lighted  calumet  is  also  used  among  them  for  a  pur 
pose  still  more  interesting  than  the  expression  of  social 
friendship.  The  austere  manners  of  the  Indians  forbid 
any  appearance  of  gallantry  between  the  sexes  in  the  day 
time  ;  but  at  night  the  young  lover  goes  a  calumetting,  as 
his  courtship  is  called.  As  these  people  live  in  a  state  of 
equality,  and  without  fear  of  internal  violence  or  theft  in 
their  own  tribes,  they  leave  their  doors  open  by  night  as 
well  as  by  day.  The  lover  takes  advantage  of  this  liberty, 
lights  his  calumet,  enters  the  cabin  of  his  mistress,  and 
gently  presents  it  to  her.  If  she  extinguish  it,  she  admits 
his  addresses :  but  if  she  suffer  it  to  burn  unnoticed,  he 


NOTES.  341 

retires  with  a  disappointed  and  throbbing  heart.  —  Ashe's 
Travels. 

P.  82,  1.  15. 
Trained  from  his  tree-rocked  cradle  to  his  bier. 

An  Indian  child;  as  soon  as  he  is  born,  is  swathed  with 
clothes,  or  skins ;  and  being  laid  on  his  back,  is  bound 
down  on  a  piece  of  thick  board,  spread  over  with  soft 
moss.  The  board  is  somewhat  larger  and  broader  than 
the  child,  and  bent  pieces  of  wood,  like  pieces  of  hoops, 
are  placed  over  its  face  to  protect  it,  so  that  if  the  machine 
were  suffered  to  fall  the  child  probably  would  not  be  in 
jured.  When  the  women  have  any  business  to  transact 
at  home,  they  hang  the  boards  on  a  tree,  if  there  be  one 
at  hand,  and  set  them  a  swinging  from  side  to  side,  like  a 
pendulum,  in  order  to  exercise  the  children.  —  Weld,  vol. 
ii.  p.  246. 

P.  82,  1.  1C. 

The  fierce  extreme  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive 

Of  the  active  as  weU  as  passive  fortitude  of  the  Indian 
character,  the  following  is  an  instance  related  by  Adair  in 
his  Travels :  — 

A  party  of  the  Senekah  Indians  came  to  war  against  the 
Katahba,  —  bitter  enemies  to  each  other.  In  the  woods 
the  former  discovered  a  sprightly  warrior  belonging  to  the 
latter,  hunting  in  their  usual  light  dress.  On  his  perceiv 
ing  them,  he  sprang  off  for  a  hollow  rock  four  or  five 
miles  distant,  as  they  intercepted  him  from  running  home 
ward.  He  was  so  extremely  swift  and  skilful  with  the 
29* 


342  N  O  T  E  vS  . 

gun,  as  to  kill  seven  of  them  in  the  running  fight,  before 
they  were  able  to  surround  and  take  him.  They  carried 
him  to  their  country  in  sad  triumph :  but  though  he  had 
filled  them  with  uncommon  grief  and  shame  for  the  loss 
of  so  many  of  their  kindred,  yet  the  love  of  martial  virtue 
induced  them  to  treat  him,  during  their  long  journey, 
with  a  great  deal  more  civility  than  if  he  had  acted  the 
part  of  a  coward.  The  women  and  children,  when  they 
met  him  at  their  several  towns,  beat  him  and  whipped 
him  in  as  severe  a  manner  as  the  occasion  required,  accord 
ing  to  their  law  of  justice ;  and  at  last  he  was  formally 
condemned  to  die  by  the  fiery  torture.  —  It  might  reason 
ably  be  imagined,  that  what  he  had  for  some  time  gone 
through,  by  being  fed  with  a  scanty  hand,  a  tedious  march, 
lying  at  night  on  the  bare  ground,  exposed  to  the  changes 
of  the  weather,  with  his  arms  and  legs  extended  in  a  pair 
of  rough  stocks,  and  suffering  such  punishment  on  his  en 
tering  into  their  hostile  towns,  as  a  prelude  to  those  sharp 
torments  for  which  he  was  destined,  would  have  so  im 
paired  his  health,  and  affected  his  imagination,  as  .to  have 
sent  him  to  his  long  sleep,  out  of  the  way  of  any  more 
sufferings.  Probably  this  would  have  been  the  case  with 
the  major  part  of  white  people  under  similar  circumstances; 
but  I  never  knew  this  with  any  of  the  Indians  ;  and  this 
cool-headed,  brave  warrior  did  not  deviate  from  their 
rough  lessons  of  martial  virtue,  but  acted  his  part  so 
well  as  to  surprise  and  sorely  vex  his  numerous  enemies  ; 
for  when  they  were  taking  him,  unpinioned*,  in  their  wild 
parade,  to  the  place  of  torture,  which  lay  near  to  a  river, 
he  suddenly  dashed  down  those  who  stood  in  his  way, 
sprang  off,  and  plunged  into  the  water,  swimming  under- 


NOTES.  343 

tieath  like  an  otter,  only  rising  to  take  breath,  till  he  had 
reached  the  opposite  shore.     He  now  ascended  the  steep 
bank,  but  though  he  had  good  reason  to  be  in  a  hurry,  as 
many  of  the  enemy  were  in  the  water,  and  others  running, 
very  like  bloodhounds,  in  pursuit  of  him,  and  the  bullets 
flying  around  him  from  the  time  he  took  to  the  river,  yet 
his  heart  did  not  allow  him  to  leave  them  abruptly,  with 
out  taking  leave  in  a  formal  manner,  in  return  for  the 
extraordinary  favors  they  had  done,  and  intended  to  do 
him.     After  slapping  a  part  of  his  body  in  defiance  to 
them,  (continues  the  author,)  he  put  up  the  shrill  war- 
whoop,  as  his  last  salute,  till  some  more  convenient  oppor 
tunity  offered,   and  darted  off  in  the  manner  of  a  beast 
broke  loose  from  its  torturing  enemies.     He  continued  his 
speed,  so  as  to  run  by  about  midnight  of  the  same  day  as 
far  as  his  eager  pursuers  were  two  days  in  reaching.    There 
he  rested  till  he  happily  discovered  five  of  those  Indians 
who  had  pursued  him :  he  lay  hid  a  little  way  off  theii 
camp,  till  they  were  sound  asleep.     Every  circumstance  of 
his  situation  occurred  to  him,  and  inspired  him  with  hero 
ism.     He  was  naked,  torn,  and  hungry,  and  his  enraged 
enemies  were  come  up  with  him; -but  there  was  now 
every  thing  to  relieve '  his  wants,  and  a  fair  opportunity  to 
save  his  life,  and  get  great  honor  and  sweet  revenge  by 
cutting  them  off.     Resolution,  a  convenient  spot,  and  sud 
den  surprise,  would  effect  the  main  object  of  all  his  wishes 
and  hopes.     He  accordingly  crept,  took  one  of  their  toma 
hawks,  and  killed  them  all  on  the  spot,  -  clothed  himself, 
took  a  choice  gun,  and  as  much  ammunition  and  provis 
ions  as  he  could  well  carry  in  a  running  march.    He  set  off 
afresh,  with  a  light  heart,  and  did  not  sleep  for  several 


344  NOTES. 

successive  nights,  only  when  he  reclined,  as  usual,  a  little 
before  day,  with  Ms  back  to  a  tree.  As  it  were  by  instinct, 
when  he  found  he  was  free  from  the  pursuing  enemy, 
he  made  directly  to  the  very  place  where  he  had  killed 
seven  of  his  enemies,  and  was  taken  by  them  for  the  fiery 
torture.  lie  digged  them  up,  burnt  their  bodies  to  ashes, 
and  went  home  in  safety  with  singular  triumph.  Other 
pursuing  enemies  came,  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
to  the  camp  of  their  dead  people,  when  the  sight  gave 
them  a  greater  shock  than  they  had  ever  known  before. 
In  their  chilled  war-council  they  concluded,  that  as  he 
had  done  such  surprising  things  in  his  defence  before  he 
was  captivated,  and  since  that  in  his  naked  condition,  and 
now  was  well  armed,  if  they  continued  the  pursuit  he 
would  spoil  them  all,  for  he  surely  was  an  enemy- wizard ; 
and  therefore  they  returned  home.  —  Adair's  G&neral  Ob 
servation  on  the  American  Indians,  p.  394. 

It  is  surprising  (says  the  same  author)  to  see  the  long- 
continued  speed  of  the  Indians.  Though  some  of  us  have 
often  run  the  swiftest  of  them  out  of  sight  for  about  the 
distance  of  twelve  miles,  yet  afterwards,  without  any 
seeming  toil,  they  would  stretch  on,  leave  us  out  of 
sight,  and  outwind  any  horse.  —  Ibid,  p.  318. 

If  an  Indian  were  driven  out  into  the  extensive  woods, 
with  only  a  knife  and  a  tomahawk,  or  a  small  hatchet,  it 
is  not  to  be  doubted  but  he  would  fatten  even  where  a 
wolf  would  starve.  He  would  soon  collect  fire  by  rubbing 
two  dry  pieces  of  wood  together,  make  a  bark  hut,  earthen 
vessels,  and  a  bow  and  arrows  :  then  kill  wild  game,  fish, 
fresh-water  tortoises,  gather  a  plentiful  variety  of  vegeta 
bles,  and  live  in  affluence.  —  Ibid,  p.  410. 


NOTES.  345 

P.  82,  1.  25. 
Moccasins  are  a  sort  of  Indian  buskins. 

P.  82,  1.  28. 

Sleep,  wearied  one !   and  in  the  dreaming  land 
Shouldst  thou  to-morrow  with  thy  mother  meet, 

There  is  nothing  (says  Charlevoix)  in  which  these  bar- 
barians  carry  their  superstitions  farther  than  in  what  re 
gards  dreams  ;  but  they  vary  greatly  in  their  manner  of 
explaining  themselves  on  this  point.     Sometimes  it  is  the 
reasonable  soul  which  ranges  abroad,  while  the  sensitive 
continues  to  animate  the  body.     Sometimes  it  is  the  famil 
iar  genius  who  gives  salutary  counsel  with  respect  to  what 
is  going  to  happen.     Sometimes  it  is  a  visit  made  by  the 
soul  of  the  object  of  which  he  dreams.     But  in  whatever 
manner  the  dream  is  conceived,  it  is  always  looked  upon 
as  a  thing  sacred,  and  as  the  most  ordinary  way  in  which 
the  gods  make  known  their  will  to  men.     Filled  with  this 
idea,  they  can  not  conceive  how  we  should  pay  no  regard 
to  them.     For  the  most  part,  they  look  upon  them  cither 
as  a  desire  of  the  soul,  inspired  by  some  genius,  or  an 
order  from  him,  and  in  consequence  of  this  principle  they 
hold  it  a  religious  duty  to  obey  them.     An  Indian  having 
dreamed  of  having  a  finger  cut  off,  had  it  really  cut  off  as 
soon  as  he  awoke,  having  first  prepared  himself  for  this 
important  action  by  a  feast.     Another  having  dreamed  of 
being  a  prisoner,  and  in  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  Avas 
much  at  a  loss  what  to  do.     He  consulted  the  jugglers, 
and  by  ttheir  advice  caused  himself  to  be  tied  to  a  post; 


346  NOTES. 

and  burnt  in  several  parts  of  the  boay.  —  Charlevoix,  Jour 
nal  of  a  Voyage  to  North  America. 

P.  83  1    7. 

From  a  flower  shaped  like  a  horn,  which  Chateaubriand 
presumes  to  be  of  the  lotus  kind,  the  Indians  in  their  trav 
els  through  the  desert  often  find  a  draught  of  dew  purer 
than  any  other  water. 

P.  83,  1.  12. 
The  crocodile,  the  condor  of  the  rock. 

The  alligator,  or  American  crocodile,  when  full-grown, 
(says  Bertram,)  is  a  very  large  and  terrible  creature,  and 
of  prodigious  strength,  activity,  and  swiftness  in  the  water. 
I  have  seen  them  twenty  feet  in  length,  and  some  are  sup 
posed  to  be  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  feet  in  length. 
Their  body  is  as  large  as  that  of  a  horse,  their  shape  usu 
ally  resembles  that  of  a  lizard,  which  is  flat,  or  cuneiform, 
being  compressed  on  each  side,  and  gradually  diminishing 
from  the  abdomen  to  the  extremity,  which,  with  the  whole 
body,  is  covered  with  horny  plates,  or  squamse,  impenetra 
ble,  when  on  the  body  of  the  live  animal,  even  to  a  rifle- 
ball,  except  about  their  head,  and  just  behind  their  fore 
legs  or  arms,  where,  it  is  said,  they  are  only  vulnerable. 
The  head  of  a  full-grown  one  is  about  three  feet,  and  the 
mouth  opens  nearly  the  same  length.  Their  eyes  are  small 
in  proportion,  and  seem  sunk  in  the  head,  by  means  of  the 
prominency  of  the  brows  ;  the  nostrils  are  large,  inflated, 
and  prominent  on  the  top,  so  that  the  head  on  the  water 
resembles,  at  a  distance,  a  great  chunk  of  wood  floating 


NOTES.  347 

about.      Only  the  upper  jaw  moves,   which  they  raise 
almost  perpendicular,  so  as  to  form  a  right- angle  with  the 
lower  one.     In  the  fore-part  of  the  upper  jaw,  on  each 
side,  just  under  the  nostrils,  are  two  very  large,  thick, 
strong  teeth,  or  tusks,  not  very  sharp,  but  rather  the  shape 
of  a  cone  :  these  are  as  white  as  the  finest  polished  ivory, 
and  are  not  covered  by  any  skin  or  lips,  but  always  in 
sight,  which  gives  the  creature  a  frightful  appearance  ;  in 
the  lower  jaw  are  holes  opposite  to  these  teeth  to  receive 
them  :   when  they  clap  their  jaws  together,  it  causes  a 
surprising   noise,  like  that  which  is  made  by  forcing  a 
heavy  plank  with  violence  itpon  the  ground,  and  may  be 
heard  at  a  great  distance.     Hut  what  is  yet  more  surpris 
ing  to  a  stranger,  is  the  incredibly  loud  and  terrifying  roar 
which  they  are  capable  of  making,  especially  in  breeding 
time.     It  most  resembles  very  heavy  distant  thunder,  not 
only  shaking  the  air  and  waters,  but  causing  the  earth  to 
tremble  ;  and  when  hundreds  are  roaring  at  the  same  time, 
you  can  scarcely  be  persuaded  but  that  the  whole  globe 
is  violently  and  dangerously  agitated.     An  old  champion, 
who   is,   perhaps,   absolute   sovereign   of  a  little   lake  or 
lagoon,  (when  fifty  less  than  himself  are  obliged  to  content 
themselves  with  swelling  and  roaring  in  little  coves  round 
about,)  darts  forth  from  the  reedy  coverts,  all  at  once,  on 
the  surface  of  the  waters,  in  a  right  line,  at  first  seemingly 
as  rapid  as  lightning,  but  gradually  more  slowly,  until  he 
arrives  at  the  centre  of  the  lake,  where  he  stops.     He  now 
swells  himself  by  drawing  in  wind  and  water  through  his 
mouth,  which  causes  a  loud  sonorous  rattling  in  the  throat 
for  near  a  minute  ;  but  it  is  immediately  forced  out  again 
ihrough  his  mouth  and  nostrils  with  a  loud  noise,  bran- 


348  NOTES. 

dishing  his  tail  in  the  air,  and  the  vapor  running  fror*.  his 
nostrils  like  smoke.  At  other  times,  when  swollen  to  an 
extent  ready  to  burst,  his  head  and  tail  lifted  up,  he  spins 
or  twirls  round  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  He  acts  his 
part  like  an  Indian  chief,  when  rehearsing  the  feats  of 
war.  —  Bertram's  Travel-s  in  North  America. 

P.  83,  1.  20. 
Then  forth  uprose  that  lone  way -far  ing  man. 

They  discover  an  amazing  sagacity,  and  acquire,  with 
the  greatest  readiness,  any  thing  that  depends  upon  the 
attention  of  the  mind.  By  experience,  and  an  acute  obser 
vation,  they  attain  many  perfections  to  which  the  Ameri 
cans  are  strangers.  For  instance,  they  will  cross  a  forest 
or  a  plain,  which  is  two  hundred  miles  in  breadth,  so  as  to 
reach  with  great  exactness  the  point  at  which  they  intend 
to  arrive,  keeping,  during  the  whole  of  that  space,  in  a 
direct  line,  without  any  material  deviations  ;  and  this  they 
will  do  with  the  same  ease,  let  the  weather  be  fair  or 
cloudy.  With  equal  acuteness  they  will  point  to  that  part 
of  the  heavens  the  sun  is  in,  though  it  be  intercepted  by 
clouds  or  fogs.  Besides  this,  they  are  able  to  pursue,  with 
incredible  facility,  the  traces  of  man  or  beast,  either  on 
leaves  or  grass  ;  and  on  this  account  it  is  with  great  diffi 
culty  they  escape  discovery.  They  are  indebted  for  these 
talents,  not  only  to  nature,  but  to  an  extraordinary  com 
mand  of  the  intellectual  qualities,  which  can  only  be  ac 
quired  by  an  unremitted  attention,  and  by  long  experi 
ence.  They  are,  in  general,  very  happy  in  a  retentive 
memory.  They  can  recapitulate  every  particular  that  has 


NOTES.  349 

been  treated  of  in  council,  and  remember  the  exact  time 
when  they  were  held.  Their  belts  of  wampum  preserve 
the  substance  of  the  treaties  they  have  concluded  with  the 
neighboring  tribes  for  ages  back,  to  which  they  will  appeal 
and  refer  with  as  much  perspicuity  and  readiness  as  Euro 
peans  can  to  their  written  records. 

The  Indians  are  totally  unskilled  in  geography,  as  well 
as  all  the  other  sciences,  and  yet  they  draw  on  their  birch- 
bark  very  exact  charts  or  maps  of  the  countries  they  are 
acquainted  with.  The  latitude  and  longitude  only  are 
wanting  to  make  them  tolerably  complete. 

Their  sole  knowledge  in  astronomy  consists  in  being  able 
to  point  out  the  polar  star,  by  which  they  regulate  their 
course  when  they  travel  in  the  night. 

They  reckon  the  distance  of  places  not  by  miles  or 
leagues,  but  by  a  day's  journey,  which,  according  to  the 
best  calculation  I  could  make,  appears  to  be  about  twenty 
English  miles.  These  they  also  divide  into  halves  and 
quarters,  and  will  demonstrate  them  in  their  maps  with 
great  exactness  by  the  hieroglyphics  just  mentioned,  when 
they  regulate  in  council  their  war-parties,  or  their  most 
distant  hunting  excursions.  —  Lewis  and  Clarke's  Travels. 

Some  of  the  French  missionaries  have  supposed  that 
the  Indians  are  guided  by  instinct,  and  have  pretended 
that  Indian  children  can  find  their  way  through  a  forest 
as  easily  as  a  person  of  maturer  years ;  but  this  is  a  most 
absurd  notion.  It  is  unquestionably  by  a  close  attention 
to  the  growth  of  the  trees,  and  position  of  the  sun,  that 
they  find  their  way.  On  the  northern  side  of  a  tree  there 
is  generally  the  most  moss  ;  and  the  bark  on  that  side,  in 
general,  differs  from  that  on  the  opposite  one.  The 
30 


350  NOTES. 

branches  toward  the  south  are,  for  the  most  part,  more 
luxuriant  than  those  on  the  other  sides  of  trees,  and 
several  other  distinctions  also  subsist  between  the  northern 
and  southern  sides,  conspicuous  to  Indians,  being  taught 
from  their  infancy  to  attend  to  them,  which  a  common 
observer  would,  perhaps,  never  notice.  Being  accustomed 
from  their  infancy  likewise  to  pay  great  attention  to  the 
position  of  the  sun,  they  learn  to  make  the  most  accurate 
allowance  for  its  apparent  motion  from  one  part  of  the 
heavens  to  another ;  and  in  every  part  of  the  day  they 
will  point  to  the  part  of  the  heavens  where  it  is,  although 
the  sky  be  obscured  by  clouds  or  mists. 

An  instance  of  their  dexterity  in  finding  their  way 
through  an  unknown  country  came  under  my  observation 
when  I  was  at  Staunton,  situated  behind  the  Blue  Moun 
tains,  Virginia.  A  number  of  the  Creek  nation  had 
arrived  at  that  town  on  their  way  to  Philadelphia,  whither 
they  were  going  upon  some  affairs  of  importance,  and  had 
stopped  there  for  the  night.  In  the  morning,  some 
circumstance  or  other,  which  could  not  be  learned,  in 
duced  one  half  of  the  Indians  to  set  off  without  their 
companions,  who  did  not  follow  until  some  hours  after 
wards.  When  these  last  were  ready  to  pursue  their 
journey,  several  of  the  towns-people  mounted  their  horses 
to  escort  them  part  of  the  way.  They  proceeded  along 
the  high  road  for  some  miles,  but,  all,  at  once,  hastily 
turning  aside  into  the  woods,  though  there  was  no  path, 
the  Indians  advanced  confidently  forward.  The  people 
who  accompanied  them,  surprised  at  this  movement, 
informed  them  that  they  were  quitting  the  road  to  Phil 
adelphia,  and  expressed  their  fear  lest  they  should  misn 


NOTES.  351 

their  companions  who  had  gone  on  before.  They  answered 
that  they  knew  better,  that  the  way  through  the  woods 
was  the  shortest  to  Philadelphia,  and  that  they  knew 
very  well  that  their  companions  had  entered  the  wood  at 
the  very  place  where  they  did.  Curiosity  led  some  of  the 
horsemen  to  go  on ;  and  to  their  astonishment,  for  there 
was  apparently  no  track,  they  overtook  the  other  Indians 
in  the  thickest  part  of  the  wood.  But  what  appeared 
most  singular  was,  that  the  route  which  they  took  was 
found,  on  examining  a  map,  to  be  as  direct  for  Philadel 
phia  as  if  they  had  taken  the  bearings  by  a  mariner's 
compass.  From  others  of  their  nation,  who  had  been  at 
Philadelphia  at  a  former  period,  they  had  probably  learned 
the  exact  direction  of  that  city  from  their  villages,  and 
had  never  lost  sight  of  it,  although  they  had  already 
travelled  three  hundred  miles  through  the  woods,  and  had 
upwards  of  ftmr  hundred  miles  more  to  go  before  they 
could  reach  the  place  of  their  destination.  Of  the  exact 
ness  with  which  they  can  find  out  a  strange  place  to 
which  they  have  been  once  directed  by  their  own  people, 
a  striking  example  is  furnished,  I  think,  by  Mr.  Jefferson, 
in  his  account  of  the  Indian  graves  in  Virginia.  These 
graves  are  nothing  more  than  large  mounds  of  earth  in 
the  woods,  which,  on  being  opened,  are  found  to  contain 
skeletons  in  an  erect  posture  :  the  Indian  mode  of  sepul 
ture  has  been  too  often  described  to  remain  unknown  to 
you.  But  to  come  to  my  story  :  A  party  of  Indians  that 
were  passing  on  to  some  of  the  seaports  on  the  Atlantic, 
just  as  the  Creeks  above  mentioned  were  going  to  Phila 
delphia,  were  observed,  all  on  a  sadden,  to  quit  the 
straight  road  by  which  they  were  proceeding,  and  without 


352  NOTES. 

asking  any  questions,  to  strike  through  the  woods,  in  a 
direct  line,  to  one  of  these  graves,  which  lay  at  the 
distance  of  some  miles  from  the  road.  Now  very  near  a 
century  must  have  passed  over  since  the  part  of  Virginia 
in  which  this  grave  was  situated  had  been  inhabited  by 
Indians,  and  these  Indian  travellers,  who  were  to  visit  it 
by  themselves,  had  unquestionably  never  been  in  that 
part  of  the  country  before  :  they  must  have  found  their 
way  to  it  simplv  from  the  description  of  its  situation 
that  had  been  handed  down  to  them  by  tradition.  — Weld's 
Travels  in  North  America,  vol.  ii. 

P.  87,  1.  30. 
Their  fathers'  dust, 

It  is  a  custom  of  the  Indian  tribes  to  visit  the  tombs 
of  their  ancestors  in  the  cultivated  parts  of  America,  who 
have  been  buried  for  upwards  of  a  century. 

P,  90,  1.  8. 
Or  wild-cane  arch  high  Jiang  o'er  gulf  profound. 

The  bridges  over  narrow  streams,  in  many  parts  of  Span 
ish  America,  are  said  to  be  built  of  cane,  which,  however 
strong  to  support  the  passenger,  are  yet  waved  in  the 
agitation  of  the  storm,  and  frequently  add  to  the  effect 
of  a  mountainous  and  picturesque  scenery. 

P.  99,  1.  8. 

The  Mammoth  comes, 

That  I  am  justified  in  making  the  Indian  chief  allude 


NOTES.  353 

to  Ihe  mammoth  as  an  emblem  of  terror  and  destruction, 
will  be  seen  by  the  authority  quoted  beiow.  Speaking 
of  the  mammoth  or  big  buffalo,  Mr.  Jefferson  states,  that 
a  tradition  is  preserved  among  the  Indians  of  that  animal 
still  existing  in  the  northern  parts  of  America. 

"A   delegation   of  warriors   from   the  Delaware    tribe 
having  visited  the  governor  of  Virginia  during  the  revolu 
tion,  on  matters   of  business,  the   governor   asked  them 
some   questions   relative    to    their    country,    and,    among 
others,   what    they  knew   or    had   heard   of   the   animal 
whose  bones  were  found  at  the  Salt-licks,  on  the  Ohio. 
Their  chief    sp-  aker    immediately  put    himself   into    an 
attitude  of  oratory,  and  with  a  pomp  suited  to  what  he 
conceived  the  elevation  of  his  subject,  informed  him  that 
it  was  a  tradition  handed  down  from  their  fathers,  that 
in   ancient   times   a   herd   of    these    tremendous   animals 
came    to    the   Bick-bone-licks,    and    began    an    universal 
destruction  of  the  bear,  deer,  elk,  buffalo,   and  other  ani 
mals  which  had  been  created  for  the  use  of  the  Indians. 
That  the  Great  Man  above  looking  down  and  seeing  this, 
was  so  enraged,  that  he  seized  his  lightning,  descended 
on  the  earth,  seated  himself  on  a  neighboring  mountain  on 
a  rock,  on  which  his  seat  and  the  prints  of  his  feet  are 
still  to  be  seen,  and  hurled  his  bolts  among  them,  till  the 
whfle  were  slaughtered,  except  the  big  bull,  who,  pre 
senting  his  forehead  to  the  shafts,  shook  them  off  as  they 
feU,  but  missing  one,  at  length,  it  wounded  him  in  the 
side,    whereon,    springing  round,    he   bounded   over   the 
Ohio,  over  the  Wabash,  the  Illinois,  and  finally  over  the 
great  lakes,  where  he  is  living  at  this  day."  —  Jefferson's 
Notes  on  Virginia. 

30* 


354  NOTES. 

P.  99,  1.  14. 

Scorning  to  wield  the  hatchet  for  his  bribe, 
'Gainst  Brandt  himself  I  went  to  battle  forth. 

I  took  the  character  of  Brandt  in  the  poem  of  Gertruda 
from  the  common  Histories  of  England,  all  of  which 
represented  him  as  a  bloody  and  bad  man,  (even  among 
savages,)  and  chief  agent  in  the  horrible  desolation  of 
Wyoming.  Some  years  after  this  poem  appeared,  the  son 
of  Brandt,  a  most  interesting  and  intelligent  youth,  came 
over  to  England,  and  I  formed  an  acquaintance  with  him 
on  which  I  still  look  back  with  pleasure.  ^Ec  appealed  to 
my  sense  of  honor  and  justice,  on  his  own  part,  and  on 
that  of  his  sister,  to  retract  the  unfair  aspersions  which, 
unconscious  of  their  unfairness,  I  had  cast  on  his  father's 
memory. 

He  then  referred  me  to  documents  which  completely 
satisfied  me  that  the  common  accounts  of  Brandt's 
cruelties  at  Wyoming,  which  I  had  found  in  books  of 
Travels,  and  in  Adolphus's  and  similar  Histories  of  Eng 
land,  were  gross  errors,  and  that  in  point  of  fact  Brandt 
was  not  even  present  at  that  scene  of  desolation. 

It  is,  unhappily,  to  Britons  and  Anglo-Americans  that 
we  must  refer  the  chief  blame  in  this  horrible  business.  I 
published  a  letter  expressing  this  belief  in  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  in  the  year  1822,  to  which  I  must 
refer  the  reader  —  if  he  has  any  curiosity  on  the  subject  — 
for  an  antidote  to  my  fanciful  description  of  Brandt. 
Among  other  expressions  to  young  Brandt,  I  made  use 
of  the  following  words :  —  "  Had  I  learned  all  this  of  your 
father  when  I  was  writing  my  poem,  he  should  not  have 


NOTES.  355 

figured  in  it  as  the  hero  of  mischief.''  It  was  but  bare 
justice  to  say  thus  much  of  a  Mohawk  Indian,  who  spoke 
English  eloquently,  and  was  thought  capable  of  having 
written  a  history  of  the  Six  Nations.  I  ascertained  also 
that  he  often  strove  to  mitigate  the  cruelty  of  Indian  war 
fare.  The  name  of  Brandt,  therefore,  remains  in  my  poein 
a  pure  and  declared  character  of  fiction. 

P.  99,  1.  21. 

To  whom  nor  relative  nor  blood  remains, 

No !  —  not  a  kindred  drop  (hot  runs  in  human  veins ! 

Every  one  who  recollects  the  specimen  of  Indian 
eloquence  given  in  the  speech  of  Logan,  a  Mingo  chief, 
to  the  governor  of  Virginia,  will  perceive  that  I  have 
attempted  to  paraphrase  its  concluding  and  most  striking 
expression  :  —  "  There  runs  not  a  drop  of  my  blood  in  the 
veins  of  any  living  creature."  The  similar  salutation  of 
the  fictitious  personage  in  my  story,  and  the  real  Indian 
orator,  makes  it  surely  allowable  to  borrow  such  an  ex 
pression  ;  and  if  it  appears,  as  it  can  not  but  appear,  to 
less  advantage  than  in  the  original,  I  beg  the  reader  to 
reflect  how  difficult  it  is  to  transpose  such  exquisitely  sim 
ple  words,  without  sacrificing  a  portion  of  their  effect. 

In  the  spring  of  1774,  a  robbery  and  murder  were 
committed  on  an  inhabitant  of  the  frontiers  of  Virginia, 
by  two  Indians  of  the  Shawanee  tribe.  The  neighboring 
whites,  according  to  their  custom,  undertook  to  punish 
this  outrage  in  a  summary  manner.  Colonel  Cresap,  a 
man  infamous  for  the  many  nrmrders  he  had  committed  on 
those  much  injured  people,  collected  a  party,  and  pro- 


356  NOTES. 

ceeded  down  the  Kanaway  in  quest  of  vengeance :  un 
fortunately,  a  canoe  with  women  and  children,  with  one 
man  only,  was  seen  coming  from  the  opposite  shore 
unarmed,  and  unsuspecting  an  attack  from  the  whites. 
Crcsap  and  his  party  concealed  themselves  on  the  bank 
of  the  river,  and  the  moment  the  canoe  reached  the  shore, 
singled  out  their  objects,  and  at  one  fire  killed  every 
person  in  it.  This  happened  to  be  the  family  of  Logan, 
who  had  long  been  distinguished  as  a  friend  to  the  whites. 
This  unworthy  return  provoked  his  vengeance ;  he  ac 
cordingly  signalized  himself  in  the  war  which  ensued.  In 
the  autumn  of  the  same  year  a  decisive  battle  was  fought 
at  the  mouth  of  the  great  Kanaway,  in  which  the  collected 
forces  of  the  Shawanees,  Mingoes,  and  Delawares,  were 
defeated  by  a  detachment  of  the  Virginia  militia.  The 
Indians  sued  for  peace.  Logan,  however,  disdained  to  be 
seen  among  the  suppliants  ;  but  lest  the  sincerity  of  a 
treaty  should  be  disturbed,  from  which  so  distinguished  a 
chief  abstracted  himself,  he  sent,  by  a  messenger,  the  fol 
lowing  speech  to  be  delivered  to  Lord  Dunmore  :  — 

"  I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's 
cabin  hungry,  and  he  gave  him  not  to  eat ;  if  ever  he 
came  cold  and  hungry,  and  he  clothed  him  not.  During 
the  last  long  and  bloody  war  Logan  remained  idle  in  his 
cabin,  an  advocate  for  peace.  Such  was  my  love  for  the 
whites,  that  my  countrymen  pointed  as  they  passed,  anoi 
said,  Logan  is  the  friend  of  the  white  man.  I  have  even 
thought  to  have  lived  with  you,  but  for  the  injuries  of  ono 
man.  Colonel  Cresap,  the  last  spring,  in  cold  blood, 
murdered  all  the  relations  of  Logan,  even  my  women  ana 
children. 


NOTES.  357 

M  There  runs  not  a  drop  of  my  blood  in  the  veins  of  any 
living  creature.  This  called  on  me  for  revenge.  I  have 
fought  for  it.  I  have  killed  many.  I  have  fully  glutted 
my  vengeance.  For  my  country,  I  rejoice  at  the  beams 
of  peace  ;  —  but  do  not  harbor  a  thought  that  mine  is  the 
joy  of  fear.  Logan  never  felt  fear.  He  will  not  turn  on 
his  heel  to  save  his  life.  Who  is  there  to  mourn  for  Lo 
gan  ?  —  not  one  !  "  —  Jefferson's  Notes  on  Virginia 

P.  109,  1.  3. 
That  gave  the  glacier  tops  their  richest  glow. 

The  sight  of  the  glaciers  of  Switzerland,  I  am  told,  has 
often  disappointed  travellers  who  had  perused  the  accounts 
of  their  splendor  and  sublimity  given  by  Bourrit  and  other 
describers  of  Swiss  scenery.  Possibly  Bourrit,  who  had 
spent  his  life  in  an  enamored  familiarity  with  the  beauties 
of  nature  in  Switzerland,  may  have  leaned  to  the  romantic 
side  of  description.  One  can  pardon  a  man  for  a  sort  of 
idolatry  of  those  imposing  objects  of  nature  which  heighten 
our  ideas  of  the  bounty  of  nature  or  Providence,  when  we 
reflect  that  the  glaciers  —  those  seas  of  ice  —  are  not  only 
sublime,  but  useful :  they  arc  the  inexhaustible  reservoirs 
which  supply  the  principal  rivers  of  Europe  ;  and  their 
annual  melting  is  in  proportion  to  the  summer  heat  which 
dries  up  those  rivers  and  makes  them  need  that  supply. 

That  the  picturesque  grandeur  of  the  glaciers  should 
sometimes  disappoint  the  traveller,  will  not  seem  surpris 
ing  to  any  one  who  has  been  much  in  a  mountainous 
country,  and  recollects  that  the  beauty  of  nature  in  such 
countries  is  not  only  variable,  but  capriciously  dependent 


358  NOTES. 

on  the  weather  and  sunshine.  There  are  about  four  hun 
dred  different  glaciers,*  according  to  the  computation  of 
M.  Bourrit,  between  Mont  Blanc  and  the  frontiers  of  the 
Tyrol.  The  full  effect  of  the  most  lofty  and  picturesque 
of  them  can,  of  course,  only  be  produced  by  the  richest 
and  warmest  light  of  the  atmosphere  ;  and  the  very  heat 
which  illuminates  them  must  have  a  changing  influence 
on  many  of  their  appearances.  I  imagine  it  is  owing  to 
this  circumstance,  namely,  the  casualty  and  changeable- 
ness  of  the  appearance  of  some  of  the  glaciers,  that  the 
impressions  made  by  them  on  the  minds  of  other  and  more 
transient  travellers  have  been  less  enchanting  than  those 
described  by  M.  Bourrit.  On  one  occasion  M.  Bourrit 
seems  even  to  speak  of  a  past  phenomenon,  and  certainly 
one  which  no  other  spectator  attests  in  the  same  terms, 
when  he  says,  that  there  once  existed,  between  the  Kandel 
Steig  and  Lauterbrun,  "  a  passage  amidst  singular  glaciers, 
sometimes  resembling  magical  towns  of  ice,  with  pilasters, 
pyramids,  columns,  and  obelisks,  reflecting  to  the  sun  the 
most  brilliant  hues  of  the  finest  gems."  M.  Bourrit's 
description  of  the  Glacier  of  the  llhone  is  quite  enchant 
ing  :  —  "  To  form  an  idea,"  he  says,  "  of  this  superb  spec 
tacle,  figure  in  your  mind  a  scaffolding  of  transparent  ice, 
filling  a  space  of  two  miles,  rising  to  the  clouds,  and  dart 
ing  flashes  of  light  like  the  sun.  Xor  were  the  several 
parts  less  magnificent  and  surprising.  One  might  see,  as 
it  were,  the  streets  and  buildings  of  a  city,  erected  in  the 
form  of  an  amphitheatre,  and  embellished  with  pieces  of 
water,  cascades,  and  torrents.  The  effects  were  as  prodi- 

*  Occupying,  if  taken  together,  a  surface  of  130  square  leagues. 


NOTES.  359 

gious  as  the  immensity  and  the  height ;  —  the  most  beau 
tiful  azure  —  the  most  splendid  white  —  the  regular  ap 
pearance  of  a  thousand  pyramids  of  ice,  —  are  more  easy 
to  be  imagined  than  described."  —  Bourrit,  iii.  163. 

P.  109,  1.  9. 
From  heights  broiosed  b\j  the  bounding  banqueting. 

Laborde,  in  his  "  Tableau  de  la  Suissc,"  gives  a  curious 
account  of  this  animal,  the  wild  sharp  cry  and  elastic 
movements  of  which  must  heighten  the  picturesque  appear 
ance  of  its  haunts.  "  Nature,"  says  Laborde,  "  has  des 
tined  it  to  mountains  covered  with  snow :  if  it  is  not 
exposed  to  keen  cold,  it  becomes  blind.  Its  agility  in 
leaping  much  surpasses  that  of  the  chamois,  and  would 
appear  incredible  to  those  who  have  not  seen  it.  There  is 
not  a  mountain  so  high  or  steep  to  which  it  will  not  trust 
itself,  provided  it  has  room  to  place  its  feet ;  it  can  scram 
ble  along  the  highest  wall,  if  its  surface  be  rugged." 

P.  109,  1.  15. 
enamelled  moss. 

The  moss  of  Switzerland,  as  well  as  that  of  the  Tyrol, 
is  remarkable  for  a  bright  smoothness,  approaching  to  the 
appearance  of  enamel. 

P.  113,  1.  11. 

How  dear  seemed  ev'n  the  waste  and  wild  Shreck-horn. 
The  Shreck-horn  means,  in  German,  the  Peak  of  Terror, 


360  NOTES. 

P.  113,  1.  16. 
Blindfold  his  native  hills  he  could  have  known. 

I  have  here  availed  myself  of  a  striking  expression  of 
the  Emperor  Napoleon  respecting  his  recollections  of  Cor 
sica,  -which  is  recorded  in  Las  Casas's  History  of  the  Em 
peror's  Abode  at  St.  Helena. 

P.  133,  1.  1. 
Innisfail,  the  ancient  name  of  Ireland. 

P.  134,  1.  5. 

Kerne,  the  plural  of  Kern,  an  Irish  foot-soldier.  In  this 
sense  the  word  is  used  by  Shakspeare.  Gainsford,  in  his 
Glories  of  England,  says,  "  They  (the  Irish)  are  desperate 
in  revenge,  and  their  kerne  think  no  man  dead  until  his 
head  be  off" 

P.  13-i,  1.  27. 
Shieling,  a  rude  cabin  or  hut. 

P.  134,  1.  33. 
In  Erin's  yellow  vesture  clad. 

Yellow,  dyed  from  saffron,  was  the  favorite  color  of  the 
ancient  Irish.  When  the  Irish  chieftains  came  to  make 
terms  with  Queen  Elizabeth's  lord-lieutenant,  we  are  told 
by  Sir  John  Davis,  that  they  came  to  court  in  saffron-col 
ored  uniforms. 

P.  135,  1.  12. 

Mdrat,  a  drink  made  of  the  juice  of  mulberry  mixed 
mth  honey. 


NOTES.  361 

P.  136,  1.  11. 

Their  fribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree^ 
Was  sung  in  Tara's  psaltery. 

The  pride  of  the  Irish  in  ancestry  was  so  great,  that  one 
of  the  O'Neals  being  told  that  Barrett  of  Castlemone  had 
been  there  only  four  hundred  years,  he  replied,  that  he 
hated  the  clown  as  if  he  had  come  there  but  yesterday. 

Tara  was  the  place  of  assemblage  and  feasting  of  the 
petty  princes  of  Ireland.  Very  splendid  and  fabulous 
descriptions  are  given  by  the  Irish  historians  of  the  pomp 
and  luxury  of  those  meetings.  The  psaltery  of  Tara  was 
the  grand  national  register  of  Ireland.  The  grand  epoch 
of  political  eminence  in  the  early  history  of  the  Irish  is 
the  reign  of  their  great  and  favorite  monarch,  Ollam  Fod- 
lah,  who  reigned,  according  to  Keating,  about  nine  hun 
dred  and  fifty  years  before  the  Christian  era.  Under  Vn'm 
was  instituted  the  great  Fes  at  Tara,  which  it  is  pretended 
was  a  triennial  convention  of  the  states,  or  a  parliament ; 
the  members  of  which  were  the  Druids,  and  other  learned 
men,  who  represented  the  people  in  that  assembly.  Very 
minute  accounts  are  given  by  Irish  annalists  of  the  mag 
nificence  and  order  of  these  entertainments ;  from  which, 
if  credible,  we  might  collect  the  earliest  traces  of  heraldry 
that  occur  in  history.  To  preserve  order  and  regularity  in 
the  great  number  and  variety  of  the  members  who  met  on 
such  occasions,  the  Irish  historians  inform  us  that  when 
the  banquet  was  ready  to  be  served  up,  the  shield-bearers 
of  the  princes,  and  other  members  of  the  convention, 
delivered  in  their  shields  and  targets,  which  were  readily 
distinguished  by  the  coats  of  arms  emblazoned  upon  them. 
31 


362  NOTES. 

These  were  arranged  by  the  grand  marshal  and  principal 
herald,  and  hung  upon  the  walls  on  the  right  side  of  the 
table;  and  upon  entering  the  apartments,  each  member 
took  his  seat  under  his  respective  shield  or  target,  without 
the  slightest  disturbance.  The  concluding  days  of  the 
meeting,  it  is  allowed  by  the  Irish  antiquaries,  were  spent 
in  very  free  excess  of  conviviality  ;  but  the  first  six,  they 
say,  were  devoted  to  the  examination  and  settlement  of 
the  annals  of  the  kingdom.  These  were  publicly  rehearsed. 
When  they  had  passed  the  approbation  of  the  assembly, 
they  were  transcribed  into  the  authentic  chronicles  of  the 
nation,  which  was  called  the  Register,  or  Psalter  of  Tara. 

Col.  Vallancey  gives  a  translation  of  an  old  Irish  frag 
ment,  found  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  which  the  pal 
ace  of  the  above  assembly  is  thus  described  as  it  existed  in 
the  reign  of  Cormac  :  — 

"  In  the  reign  of  Cormac,  the  palace  of  Tara  was  nine 
hundred  feet  square ;  the  diameter  of  the  surrounding 
rath,  seven  dice  or  casts  of  a  dart ;  it  contained  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  apartments  ;  one  hundred  and  fifty  dormito 
ries,  or  sleeping-rooms  for  guards,  and  sixty  men  in  each  : 
the  height  was  twenty-seven  cubits  ;  there  were  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  common  drinking-horns,  twelve  doors,  and 
one  thousand  guests  daily,  besides  princes,  orators,  and 
men  of  science,  engravers  of  gold  and  silver,  carvers,  mod 
ellers,  and  nobles."  The  Irish  description  of  the  banquet- 
ing-hall  is  thus  translated  :  —  "  Twelve  stalls  or  divisions 
in  each  wing  ;  sixteen  attendants  on  each  side,  and  two  to 
each  table  ;  one  hundred  guests  in  all." 


NOTES.  363 

P.  136,  1.  22. 
And  stemmed  De  Bourgo's  chivalry. 

The  house  of  O'Connor  had  a  right  to  boast  of  their 
victories  over  the  English.  It  was  a  chief  of  the  O'Con 
nor  race  who  gave  a  check  to  the  English  champion  De 
Courcy,  so  famous  for  his  personal  strength,  and  for  cleav 
ing  a  helmet  at  one  blow  of  his  sword,  in  the  presence  of 
the  kings  of  France  and  England,  when  the  French  cham 
pion  declined  the  combat  with  him.  Though  ultimately 
conquered  by  the  English  under  De  Bourgo,  the  O'Con 
nors  had  also  humbled  the  pride  of  that  name  on  a  memo 
rable  occasion,  viz.  :  when  Walter  de  Bourgo,  an  ancestor 
of  that  De  Bourgo  who  won  the  battle  of  Athunree,  had 
become  so  insolent  as  to  make  excessive  demands  upon  the 
territories  of  Connaught,  and  to  bid  defiance  to  all  the 
rights  and  properties  reserved  by  the  Irish  chiefs.  Eath 
O'Connor,  a  near  descendant  of  the  famous  Cathal,  sur- 
named  of  the  Bloody  Hand,  rose  against  the  usurper,  and 
defeated  the  English  so  severely,  that  their  general  died 
of  chagrin  after  the  battle. 

P.  136,  1.  25. 
Or  bcal-Jlres  for  your  jubilee. 

The  month  of  May  is  to  this  day  called  Mi  Beal  tiennie, 
i.  e.,  the  month  of  Beal's-fire,  in  the  original  language  of 
Ireland,  and  hence  I  believe  the  name  of  the  Beltan  festi 
val  in  the  Highlands.  These  fires  were  lighted  on  the 
summits  of  mountains  (the  Irish  antiquaries  say)  in  honor 
of  the  sun  ;  and  are  supposed,  by  those  conjecturing  gen 
tlemen,  to  prove  the  origin  of  the  Irish  from  some  nation 


364 


NOTES 


who  worshipped  Baal  or  Belus.  Many  hills  in  Ireland 
still  retain  the  name  of  Cnoc  Greine,  i.  e.,  the  Hill  of  the 
Sun  ;  and  on  all  are  to  be  seen  the  ruins  of  Druidical  altars. 

P.  137,  1.  12. 
And  play  my  clarshech  by  thy  side. 

The  clarshech,  or  harp,  the  principal  musical  instrument 
of  the  Hibernian  bards,  does  not  appear  to  be  of  Irish  ori 
gin,  nor  indigenous  to  any  of  the  British  islands.  The 
Britons  undoubtedly  were  not  acquainted  with  it  during 
the  residence  of  the  Romans  in  their  country,  as  in  all 
their  coins,  on  which  musical  instruments  are  represented, 
we  see  only  the  Roman  lyre,  and  not  the  British  teylin,  or 
harp. 

P.  137,  1.  18. 
And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  bawn. 

Bawn,  from  the  Teutonic  Bawen  —  to  construct  and 
secure  with  branches  of  trees,  was  so  called  because  the 
primitive  Celtic  fortifications  were  made  by  digging  a 
ditch,  throwing  up  a  rampart,  and  on  the  latter  fixing 
stakes,  which  were  interlaced  with  boughs  of  trees.  This 
word  is  used  by  Spenser ;  but  it  is  inaccurately  called  by 
Mr.  Todd,  his  annotator,  an  eminence. 

P.  141,  1.  6. 
To  speak  the  malison  of  heaven. 

If  the  wrath  which  I  have  ascribed  to  the  heroine  of 
this  little  piece  should  seem  to  exhibit  her  character  as  too 
unnaturally  stripped  of  patriotic  and  domestic  affections,  I 


NOTES.  365 

must  beg  leave  to  plead  the  authority  of  Corneille  in  the 
representation  of  a  similar  passion  :  I  allude  to  the  denun 
ciation  of  Camille,  in  the  tragedy  of  Horace.  When 
Horace,  accompanied  by  a  soldier  bearing  the  three 
swords  of  the  Curiatii,  meets  his  sister,  and  invites  her 
to  congratulate  him  on  his  victory,  she  expresses  only  her 
grief,  which  he  attributes  at  first  only  to  her  feelings  for 
the  loss  of  her  two  brothers ;  but  when  she  bursts  forth 
into  reproaches  against  him  as  the  murderer  of  her  lover, 
the  last  of  the  Curiatii,  he  exclaims  :  — 

"O  ciel!  qui  vit  jamais  une  pareille  rage! 
Crois-tu  done  que  je  sols  insensible  a  1'outrage, 
Que  je  soufire  en  mon  sang  ce  mortol  deshonneur  ? 
Aime,  aime  cette  mort  qui  fait  notre  bonheur; 
Et  pr6fere  du  moins  au  souvenir  d'un  homme 
Ce  que  doit  ta  naissance  aux  interets  de  Rome." 

At  the  mention  of  Rome,  Camille  breaks  out  into  this 
apostrophe :  — 

"  Rome,  1'unique  objet  de  mon  ressentiment! 
Rome,  a  qui  vient  ton  bras  d'immoler  mon  amant ! 
Rome  qui  t'a  vu  naitre  et  que  ton  coeur  adore ! 
Rome  enfin  que  je  hai's  parce  qu'elle  t'honore ! 
Puissent  tous  ses  voisins  ensemble  conjures 
Saper  ses  fondements  encor  mul  assures ; 
Et  si  ce  n'est  assez  de  toute  1'Italie, 
Que  1'Orient  contre  elle  a  1'Occident  s'allie  ; 
Que  cent  peuples  unis  des  bouts  de  1'univers 
Passent  pour  la  detruire  et  les  monls  et  les  mers  ; 
Qu'elle-meme  sur  soi  renverse  ses  murailles, 
Et  de  ses  propres  mains  dechire  ses  entrailles  j 
Que  le  courroux  du  ceil  allumS  par  mes  voeux 
Fasse  pleuvoir  sur  elle  un  deluge  de  feux' 
31* 


oG6  NOTES. 

Puiss6-je  de  mes  yeux  y  voir  tomber  ce  foudre, 
Voir  ses  maisons  en  cendre,  et  tes  launers  en  poudre, 
Voir  le  dernier  Romain  i  son  dernier  soupir, 
Moi  seule  en  etre  cause,  et  mourir  de  plaisir !  " 

P.  141,  1.  11. 
And  go  to  Athunree '.   (I  cried.) 

In  the  reign  of  Edward  II.,  the  Irish  presented  to  Pope 
John  XXII.  a  memorial  of  their  sufferings  tinder  the  Eng 
lish,  of  which  the  language  exhibits  all  the  strength  of 
despair.  "  Ever  since  the  English  (say  they)  first  appeared 
upon  our  coasts,  they  entered  our  territories  under  a  cer 
tain  specious  pretence  of  charity,  and  external  hypocritical 
show  of  religion,  endeavoring  at  the  same  time,  by  every 
artifice  malice  could  suggest,  to  extirpate  us,  root  and 
branch,  and  without  any  other  right  than  that  of  the 
strongest.  They  have  so  far  succeeded,  by  base  fraudu- 
lence  and  cunning,  that  they  have  forced  us  to  quit  our 
fair  and  ample  habitations  and  inheritances,  and  to  take 
refuge,  like  wild  beasts,  in  the  mountains,  the  woods,  and 
the  morasses  of  the  country:  nor  even  can  the  caverns 
and  dens  protect  us  against  their  insatiable  avarice.  They 
pursue  us  even  into  these  frightful  abodes,  endeavoring  to 
dispossess  us  of  the  wild  uncultivated  rocks,  and  arrogate 
to  themselves  the  PROPERTY  OF  EVERY  PLACE  on  which  we 
can  stamp  the  figure  of  our  feet." 

The  greatest  effort  ever  made  by  the  ancient  Irish  to 
regain  their  native  independence,  was  made  at  the  time 
when  they  called  over  the  brother  of  Robert  Bruce  from 
Scotland.  William  De  Bourgo,  brother  to  the  Earl  of 
Ulster,  and  Richard  de  Bermingham,  were  sent  against 


NOTES.  367 

the  main  body  of  the  native  insurgents,  who  were  headed 
rather  than  commanded  by  Felim  O'Connor.  The  impor 
tant  battle  which  decided  the  subjection  of  Ireland,  took 
place  on  the  10th  of  August,  1315.  It  was  the  bloodiest 
that  ever  was  fought  between  the  two  nations,  and  con 
tinued  throughout  the  whole  day,  from  the  rising  to  the 
setting  sun.  The  Irish  fought  with  inferior  discipline,  but 
with  great  enthusiasm.  They  lost  ten  thousand  men, 
among  whom  were  twenty-nine  chiefs  of  Connaught. 
Tradition  states  that,  after  this  terrible  day,  the  O'Connor 
family,  like  the  Fabian,  were  so  nearly  exterminated,  that 
throughout  all  Connaught  not  one  of  the  name  remained, 
except  Felim's  brother,  who  was  capable  of  bearing  arms. 

P.  143. 

Lochiel,  the  chief  of  the  warlike  clan  of  the  Camerons, 
and  descended  from  ancestors  distinguished  in  their  narrow 
sphere  for  great  personal  prowess,  was  a  man  worthy  of  a 
better  cause  and  fate  than  that  in  which  he  embarked,  the 
enterprise  of  the  Stuarts  in  1745.  His  memory  is  still 
fondly  cherished  among  the  Highlanders,  by  the  appella 
tion  of  the  "gentle  Lochiel;"  for  he  was  famed  for  his 
social  virtues  as  much  as  his  martial  and  magnanimous 
(though  mistaken)  loyalty.  His  influence  was  so  impor 
tant  among  the  Highland  chiefs,  that  it  depended  on  his 
joining  with  his  clan  whether  the  standard  of  Charles 
should  be  raised  or  not  in  1745.  Lochiel  was  himself  too 
wise  a  man  to  be  blind  to  the  consequences  of  so  hopeless 
an  enterprise ;  but  his  sensibility  to  the  point  of  honor 
overruled  his  wisdom.  Charles  appealed  to  his  loyalty, 


368  NOTES. 

and  lie  could  not  brook  the  reproaches  of  his  Prince. 
When  Charles  landed  at  Borrodale,  Lochiel  went  to  meet 
him  ;  but  on  his  way  called  at  his  brother's  house,  (Cam 
eron  of  Fassafern,)  and  told  him  on  what  errand  he  was 
going ;  adding,  however,  that  he  meant  to  dissuade  the 
Prince  from  his  enterprise.  Fassafern  advised  him,  in 
that  case,  to  communicate  liis  mind  by  letter  to  Charles. 
"No,"  said  Lochiel,  "I  think  it  due  to  my  Prince  to  give 
him  my  reasons  in  person  for  refusing  to  join  his  stand 
ard."  "Brother,"  replied  Fassafern,  "I  know  you  better 
than  you  know  yourself :  if  the  Prince  once  sets  eyes  on 
you,  he  will  make  you  do  what  he  pleases."  The  inter 
view  accordingly  took  place ;  and  Lochiel,  with  many 
arguments,  but  in  vain,  pressed  the  Pretender  to  return 
to  France,  and  reserve  himself  and  his  friends  for  a  more 
favorable  occasion,  —  as  he  had  come,  by  his  own  acknowl 
edgment,  without  arms,  or  money,  or  adherents :  or,  at  all 
events,  to  remain  concealed  till  his  friends  should  meet 
and  deliberate  what  was  best  to  be  done.  Charles,  whose 
mind  was  wound  up  to  the  utmost  impatience,  paid  no 
regard  to  this  proposal,  but  answered,  "  that  he  was  deter 
mined  to  put  all  to  the  hazard."  "  In  a  few  days,"  said 
he,  "  I  will  erect  the  royal  standard,  and  proclaim  to  the 
people  of  Great  Britain,  that  Charles  Stuart  is  come  over 
to  claim  the  crown  of  his  ancestors,  and  to  win  it,  or  per 
ish  in  the  attempt.  Lochiel,  who  my  father  has  often  told 
me  was  our  firmest  friend,  may  stay  at  home,  and  learn 
from  the  newspapers  the  fate  of  his  Prince."  "  No,"  said 
Lochiel,  "  I  will  share  the  fate  of  my  Prince,  and  so  shall 
every  man  over  whom  nature  or  fortune  hath  given  me 
any  power." 


NOTES.  369 

The  other  chieftains  who  followed  Charles  embraced  his 
cause  with  no  better  hopes.  It  engages  our  sympathy  most 
strongly  in  their  behalf,  that  no  motive,  but  their  fear  to  be 
reproached  with  cowardice  or  disloyalty,  impelled  them  to 
the  hopeless  adventure.  Of  this  we  have  an  example  in 
the  interview  of  Prince  Charles  with  Clanronald,  another 
leading  chieftain  in  the  rebel  army. 

"  Charles,"  says  Home,  "  almost  reduced  to  despair,  in 
his  discourse  with  Boisdale,  addressed  the  two  High 
landers  with  great  emotion  ;  and,  summing  up  his  argu 
ments  for  taking  arms,  conjured  them  to  assist  their 
Prince,  their  countryman,  in  his  utmost  need.  Clanronald 
and  his  friend,  though  well-inclined  to  the  cause,  positive 
ly  refused,  and  told  him  that  to  take  up  arms  without 
concert  or  support  was  to  pull  down  certain  ruin  on  their 
own  heads.  Charles  persisted,  argued,  and  implored. 
During  this  conversation  (they  were  on  ship-board)  the 
parties  walked  backwards  and  forwards  on  the  deck :  a 
Highlander  stood  near  them,  armed  at  all  points,  as  was 
then  the  fashion  of  his  country.  He  was  a  younger 
brother  of  Kinloch  Moidart,  and  had  come  off  to  the  ship 
to  inquire  for  news,  not  knowing  who  was  aboard.  When 
he  gathered  from  their  discourse  that  the  stranger  was  the 
Prince  of  Wales  :  when  he  heard  his  chief  and  his  brother 
refuse  to  take  arms  with  their  Prince ;  his  color  went  and 
came,  his  eyes  sparkled,  he  shifted  his  place,  and  grasped 
his  sword.  Charles  observed  his  demeanor,  and  turning 
briskly  to  him,  called  out, « Will  you  assist  me  ? '  — <  I  will, 
I  will,'  said  Ronald  :  « though  no  other  man  in  the  High 
lands  should  draw  a  sword,  I  am  ready  to  die  for  you  ! ' 
Charles,  with  a  profusion  of  thanks  to  his  champion,  said, 


370 


NOTES. 


he  wished  all  the  Higlanders  were  like  hiin.  Without 
further  deliberation,  the  two  Macdonalds  declared  that 
they  would  also  join,  and  use  their  utmost  endeavors  to 
engage  their  countrymen  to  take  arms."  —  Home's  Hist. 
Rebellion,  p.  40. 

P.   143,  1.  15. 
Weep,  Albin! 

The  Gaelic  appellation  of  Scotland,  more  particularly 
the  Highlands. 

P.  145,  1.  3. 

Lo,  annointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath, 
Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path ! 

The  lines  allude  to  the  many  hardships  of  the  royal 
sufferer. 

An  account  of  the  second  sight,  in  Irish  called  Taish, 
is  thus  given  in  Martin's  Description  of  the  Western  Isles 
of  Scotland :  — 

"The  second  sight  is  a  singular  faculty  of  seeing  an 
otherwise  invisible  object,  without  any  previous  means 
used  by  the  person  who.  sees  it  for  that  end.  The  vision 
makes  such  a  lively  impression  upon  the  seers,  that  they 
neither  see  nor  think  of  any  thing  else  except  the  vision 
as  long  as  it  continues;  and  then  they  appear  pensive 
or  jovial  according  to  the  object  which  was  represented  to 
them. 

"  At  the  sight  of  a  vision  the  eyelids  of  the  person  are 
erected,  and  the  eyes  continue  staring  until  the  object 
Vanishes.  This  is  obvious  to  others  who  are  standing  by 
when  the  persons  happen  to  see  a  vision ;  and  occurred 


NOTES.  371 

more  than  once  to  my  own  observation,  and  to  others  that 
were  with  me. 

"  There  is  one  in  Side,  of  whom  his  acquaintance 
observed,  that  when  he  sees  a  vision  the  inner  part  of  his 
eyelids  turns  so  far  upwards,  that,  after  the  object  disap 
pears,  he  must  draw  them  down  with  his  fingers,  and 
sometimes  employ  others  to  draw  them  down,  which  he 
finds  to  be  much  the  easier  Avav. 

"  This  facility  of  the  second  sight  does  not  lineally 
descend  in  a  family,  as  some  have  imagined ;  for  I  know 
several  parents  who  are  endowed  with  it,  and  their  chil 
dren  are  not ;  and  vice  versd.  Neither  is  it  acquired 
by  any  previous  compact.  And  after  strict  inquiry,  I 
could  never  learn  from  any  among  them,  that  this  faculty 
was  communicable  to  any  whatsoever.  The  seer  knows 
neither  the  object,  time,  nor  place  of  a  vision  before  it 
appears;  and  the  same  object  is  often  seen  by  different 
persons  living  at  a  considerable  distance  from  one  another. 
The  true  way  of  judging  as  to  the  time  and  circumstances 
is  by  observation ;  for  several  persons  of  judgment  who 
are  without  this  faculty  are  more  capable  to  judge  of  the 
design  of  a  vision  than  a  novice  that  is  a  seer.  If  an 
object  appear  in  the  day  or  night,  it  will  come  to  pass 
sooner  or  later  accordingly. 

"  If  an  object  is  seen  early  in  the  morning,  which  is  not 
frequent,  it  will  be  accomplished  in  a  few  hours  after 
wards  ;  if  at  noon,  it  will  probably  be  accomplished  that 
very  day ;  if  in  the  evening,  perhaps  that  night ;  if  after 
candles  be  lighted,  it  will  be  accomplished  that  night :  the 
latter  always  an  accomplishment  by  weeks,  months,  and 


372  NOTES. 

sometimes  yeaxs,  according  to  the  time  of  the  night  the 
vision  is  seen. 

"  When  a  shroud  is  seen  about  one,  it  is  a  sure  prog 
nostic  of  death.  The  time  is  judged  according  to  the 
height  of  it  about  the  person ;  for  if  it  is  not  seen  above 
the  middle,  death  is  not  to  be  expected  for  the  space  of  a 
year,  and  perhaps  some  months  longer :  and  as  it  is  fre 
quently  seen  to  ascend  higher  towards  the  head,  death  is 
concluded  to  be  at  hand  within  a  few  days,  if  not  hours, 
as  daily  experience  confirms.  Examples  of  this  kind 
were  shown  me,  when  the  person  of  whom  the  observa 
tions  were  then  made  was  in  perfect  health. 

"  It  is  ordinary  with  them  to  see  houses,  gardens,  and 
trees  in  places  void  of  all  these,  and  this  in  process  of 
tune  is  wont  to  be  accomplsihed ;  as  at  Mogslot,  in  the 
Isle  of  Skie,  where  there  were  but  a  few  sorry  low  houses, 
thatched  with  straw  ;  yet  in  a  few  years  the  vision,  which 
appeared  often,  was  accomplished  by  the  building  of 
several  good  houses  in  the  very  spot  represented  to  the 
seers,  and  by  the  planting  of  orchards  there. 

"  To  see  a  spark  of  fire  is  a  forerunner  of  a  dead  child, 
to  be  seen  in  the  arms  of  those  persons ;  of  which  there 
are  several  instances.  To  see  a  seat  empty  at  the  time 
of  sitting  in  it,  is  a  presage  of  that  person's  death  quickly 
after  it. 

"  When  a  novice,  or  one  that  has  lately  obtained  the 
second  sight,  sees  a  vision  in  the  night-time,  without 
doors,  and  comes  near  a  fire,  he  presenting  falls  into  a 
swoon. 

"  Some  find  themselves  as  it  were  in  a  crowd  of  people 
having  a  corpse,  which  they  carry  along  with  them ;  and 


.NOTES.  373 

after  such  visions  the  seers  come  in  sweating,  and  describe 
the  vision  that  appeared.  If  there  be  any  of  their 
acquaintance  among  them,  they  give  an  accoxint  of  their 
names,  as  also  of  the  bearers ;  but  they  know  nothing 
concerning  the  corpse." 

Horses  and  cows  (according  to  the  same  credulous 
author)  have  certainly  sometimes  the  same  faculty ;  and 
he  endeavors  to  prove  it  by  the  signs  of  fear  which  the 
animals  exhibit,  when  second-sighted  persons  see  visions 
in  the  same  place. 

"The  seers  (he  continues)  are  generally  illiterate  and 
well-meaning  people,  and  altogether  void  of  design :  nor 
could  I  ever  learn  that  any  of  them  ever  made  the  least 
gain  by  it ;  neither  is  it  reputable  among  them  to  have 
that  faculty.  Besides,  the  people  of  the  Isles  are  not  so 
credulous  as  to  believe  implicitly  before  the  thing  pre 
dicted  is  accomplished ;  but  when  it  is  actually  accom 
plished  afterwards,  it  is  not  in  their  power  to  deny  it 
without  offering  violence  to  their  own  sense  and  reason. 
Besides,  if  the  seers  were  deceivers,  can  it  be  reasonable 
to  imagine  that  all  the  islanders  who  have  not  the  second 
sight  should  combine  together,  and  offer  violent  to  their 
understandings  and  senses,  to  enforce  themselves  to  believe 
a  lie  from  age  to  age  ?  There  are  several  persons  among 
them  whose  title  and  education  raise  them  above  the 
suspicion  of  concurring  with  an  impostor,  merely  to 
gratify  an  illiterate,  contemptible  set  of  persons ;  nor  can 
reasonable  persons  believe  that  children,  horses,  and  cows, 
should  be  pree'ngaged  in  a  combination  in  favor  of  the 
second  sight."  —  Martin's  Description  of  the  Western  Isles 
of  Scotland,  pp.  3,  11. 
32 


374  NOTES. 

P.  182,  1.  4. 
The  dark-attired  Culdee. 

The  Culdees  were  the  primitive  clergy  of  Scotland,  and 
apparently  her  only  clergy  from  the  sixth  to  the  eleventh 
century.  They  were  of  Irish  origin,  and  their  monastery 
on  the  island  of  lona,  or  Icolmkill,  was  the  seminary  of 
Christianity  in  North  Britain.  Presbyterian  writers  have 
wished  to  prove  them  to  have  been  a  sort  of  Presbyters, 
strangers  to  the  Roman  Church  and  Episcopacy.  It  seems 
to  be  established  that  they  were  not  enemies  to  Episcopa 
cy  ;  —  but  that  they  were  not  slavishly  subjected  to  Rome, 
like  the  clergy  of  later  periods,  appears  by  their  resisting 
the  Papal  ordonnances  respecting  the  celibacy  of  religious 
men,  on  which  account  they  were  ultimately  displaced  by 
the  Scottish  sovereigns  to  make  way  for  more  Popish 
canons. 

P.  184,  1.  29. 
And  the  shield  of  alarm  was  dumb. 

Striking  the  shield  was  an  ancient  mode  of  convocation 
to  war  among  the  Gael. 

P.  189. 

The  tradition  which  forms  the  substance  of  these  stanzas 
is  still  preserved  in  Germany.  An  ancient  tower  on  a 
height,  called  the  Rolandseck,  a  few  miles  above  Bonn  on 
the  Rhine,  is  shown  as  the  habitation  which  Roland  built  in 
sight  of  a  nunnery,  into  which  his  mistress  had  retired,  on 
hearing  an  unfounded  account  of  his  death.  Whatever 
may  be  thought  of  the  credibility  of  the  legend,  its 


NOTES 


375 


scenery  must  be  recollected  with  pleasure  by  every  one 
who  has  visited  the  romantic  landscape  of  the  Drachenfels, 
the  Rolandseck,  and  the  beautiful  adjacent  islet  of  the 
Rhine,  where  a  nunnery  still  stands. 

P.  195,  1.  23. 
That  erst  the  adventurous  Norman  wore. 

A  Norman  leader,  in  the  service  of  the  King  of  Scot 
land,  married  the  heiress  of  Lochow  in  the  twelfth  century, 
and  from  him  the  Campbells  are  sprung. 

P.  223,  1.  7. 
Whose  lineage,  in  a  raptured  hour. 

Alluding  to  the  well-known  tradition  respecting  the 
origin  of  painting,  that  it  arose  from  a  young  Corinthian 
female  tracing  the  shadow  of  her  lover's  profile  on  the 
wall,  as  he  lay  asleep. 

P.  232,  1.  24. 
Where  the  Norman  encamped  him  of  old. 

What  is  called  the  East  Hill,  at  Hastings,  is  crowned 
with  the  works  of  an  ancient  camp ;  and  it  is  more  than 
probable  it  was  the  spot  which  William  I.  occupied 
between  his  landing  and  the  battle  which  gave  him 
England's  crown.  It  is  a  strong  position;  the  works 
are  easily  traced. 

P.  237,  1.  10. 

France  turns  from  her  abandoned  friends  afresh. 
The  fact  ought  to  be  universally  known,  that  France 


376  NOTES. 

is  at  this  moment  indebted  to  Poland  for  not  being  in 
vaded  by  Russia.  When  the  Duke  Constantine  fled 
from  Warsaw,  he  left  papers  behind  him  proving  that 
the  Russians,  after  the  Parisian  events  in  July,  meant 
to  have  marched  towards  Paris,  if  the  Polish  insurrection 
had  not  prevented  them. 

P.  245,  1.  6. 
Thee,  Niemciewitz, 

This  venerable  man,  the  most  popular  and  influential 
of  Polish  poets,  and  president  of  the  academy  in  Warsaw, 
is  now  in  London  :  he  is  seventy- four  years  old  ;  but  his 
noble  spirit  is  rather  mellowed  than  decayed  by  age. 
He  was  the  friend  of  Fox,  Kosciusko,  and  Washington. 
Rich  in  anecdote,  like  Franklin,  he  has  also  a  striking 
resemblance  to  him  in  countenance. 

P.  246,  1.  3. 
Nor  church  bell 

In  Catholic  countries  you  often  hear  the  church-bells 
rung  to  propitiate  Heaven  during  thunder-storms. 

P.  256,  1.  12. 
Regret  the  lark  that  gladdens  England's  morn. 

Mr.  P.  Cunningham,  in  his  interesting  work  on  New 
South  Wales,  gives  the  following  account  of  its  song 
birds  :  —  "  We  are  not  moved  here  with  the  deep  mellow 
note  of  the  blackbird,  poured  out  from  beneath  some  low 
Btunted  bush,  nor  thrilled  with  the  wild  warblings  of  the 


NOTES.  377 

thrush  perched  on  the  top  of  some  tall  sapling,  nor 
charmed  with  the  blithe  carol  of  the  lark  as  we  proceed 
early  a-field ;  none  of  our  birds  rivalling  those  divine 
songsters  in  realizing  the  poetical  idea  of  '  the  music  of  the 
grove  : '  while  '  parrots'  chattering '  must  supply  the  place 
of  '  nightingales'  singing '  in  the  future  amorous  lays  of 
our  sighing  Celadons.  We  have  our  lark,  certainly,  but 
both  his  appearance  and  note  are  a  most  wretched  parody 
upon  the  bird  about  which  our  English  poets  have  made 
so  many  fine  similies.  He  will  mount  from  the  ground 
and  rise,  fluttering  upwards  in  the  same  manner,  and  with 
a  few  of  the  starting  notes  of  the  English  lark ;  but  on 
reaching  the  height  of  thirty  feet  or  so,  down  he  drops  sud 
denly  and  mutely,  diving  into  concealment  among  the  long 
grass,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  pitiful  attempt.  For  the  pert, 
frisky  robin,  pecking  and  pattering  against  the  windows  in 
the  dull  days  of  winter,  we  have  the  lively  '  superb  war 
bler,'  with  his  blue,  shining  plumage  and  his  long  tapering 
tail,  picking  up  the  crumbs  at  our  doors  ;  while  the  pretty 
red-bills,  of  the  size  and  form  of  the  goldfinch,  constitute 
the  sparrow  of  our  clime,  flying  in  flocks  about  our  houses, 
and  building  their  soft,  downy,  pigmy  nests  in  the  orange, 
peach,  and  lemon  trees  surrounding  them."  —  Cunning 
ham's  Two  Years  in  New  South  IVales,  vol.  ii.  p.  216. 

P.  265,  1.  32. 
Oh,  feeble  statesmen  —  ignominious  times. 

There  is  not  upon  record  a  more  disgusting  scene  of 
Russian  hypocrisy,  and  (wo  that  it  must  be  written!) 
of  British  humiliation,  than  that  which  passed  on  board 
32* 


378  NOTES. 

the  Talavera,  when  British  sailors  accepted  money  from 
the  Emperor  Nicholas,  and  gave  him  cheers.  It  will 
require  the  Talavera  to  fight  well  with  the  first  Russian 
ship  that  she  may  have  to  encounter,  to  make  us  forget 
that  day. 

P.  275,  1.  16. 
A  palsy-stroke  of  Nature  shook  Oran. 

In  the  year  1790,  Oran,  the  most  western  city  in  the 
Algerine  Regency,  which  had  been  possessed  by  Spain 
for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  and  fortified  at  an  im 
mense  expense,  was  destroyed  by  an  earthquake  ;  six 
thousand  of  its  inhabitants  were  buried  under  the  ruins. 

P.  280,  1.  18. 
The  vale  by  eagle-haunted  cliff's  o'erhung. 

The  valley  of  Glencoe,  unparalleled  in  its  scenery  for 
gloomy  grandeur,  is  to  this  day  frequented  by  eagles. 
When  I  visited  the  spot,  within  a  year  ago,  I  saw  several 
perch  at  a  distance.  Only  one  of  them  came  so  near  me 
that  I  did  not  wish  him  any  nearer.  He  favored  me  with 
a  full  and  continued  view  of  his  noble  person,  and  with 
the  exception  of  the  African  eagle  whom  I  saw  wheeling 
and  hovering  over  a  corps  of  the  French  army  that  were 
marching  from  Oran,  and  who  seemed  to  linger  over  them 
with  delight  at  the  sound  of  their  trumpets,  as  if  they 
were  about  to  restore  his  image  to  the  Gallic  standard  — 
I  never  saw  a  prouder  bird  than  this  black  eagle  of 
Glencoe. 

I  was  unable,  from  a  hurt  in  my  foot,  to  leave  the 


NOTES.  379 

carriage ;  but  the  guide  informed  me  that,  if  I  could  go 
nearer  the  sides  of  the  glen,  I  should  see  the  traces  of 
houses  and  gardens  once  belonging  to  the  unfortunate 
inhabitants.  As  it  was,  I  never  saw  a  spot  where  I 
could  less  suppose  human  beings  to  have  ever  dwelt.  I 
asked  the  guide  how  these  eagles  subsisted ;  he  replied, 
"on  the  lambs  and  the  fawns  of  Lord  Breadalbane." 
"Lambs  and  fawns!"  I  said;  "and  how  do  they  sub 
sist,  for  I  can  not  see  verdure  enough  to  graze  a  rabbit  ? 
I  suspect,"  I  added,  "  that  these  birds  make  the  cliffs 
only  their  country-houses,  and  that  they  go  down  to 
the  Lowlands  to  find  their  provender."  "Ay,  ay,"  re 
plied  the  Highlander,  "  it  is  very  possible,  for  the  eagle 
can  gang  far  for  his  breakfast." 

P.  285,  1.  31. 
Witch  legends  Ronald  scorned  —  ghost,  kelpie,  wraith. 

The  most  dangerous  and  malignant  creature  of  High 
land  superstition  Avas  the  kelpie,  or  water-horse,  which 
was  supposed  to  allure  women  and  children  to  his  sub 
aqueous  haunts,  and  there  devour  them  ;  sometimes  he 
would  swell  the  lake  or  torrent  beyond  its  usual  limits, 
and  overwhelm  the  unguarded  traveller  in  the  flood. 
The  shepherd,  as  he  sat  on  the  brow  of  a  rock,  on  a  sum 
mer's  evening,  often  fancied  he  saw  this  animal  dashing 
ulong  the  surface  of  the  lake,  or  browsing  on  the  pasture- 
ground  upon  its  verge.  —  Brown's  History  of  the  Highland 
Clans,  vol.  i.  p.  108. 

In  Scotland,  according  to  Dr.  John  Brown,  it  is  yet  a 
superstitious  principle  that. the  wraith,  the  omen  or  mes- 


380  s  o  T  E  s  . 

senger  of  death,  appears  in  the  resemblance  of  one  in 
danger,  immediately  preceding  dissolution.  This  ominoua 
form,  purely  of  a  spiritual  nature,  seems  to  testify  that  the 
exaction  (extinction)  of  life  approaches.  It  was  wont  to 
be  exhibited,  also,  as  " a  little  rough  dog"  when  it  could 
be  pacified  by  the  death  of  any  other  being  "  if  crossed, 
and  conjured  in  time."  —  Brown's  Superstitions  of  the 
Highlands,  p.  182. 

It  happened  to  me,  early  in  life,  to  meet  with  an 
amusing  instance  of  Highland  superstition  with  regard  to 
myself.  I  lived  in  a  family  of  the  Island  of  Mull,  and  a 
mile  or  two  from  their  house  there  was  a  burial-ground, 
without  any  church  attached  to  it,  on  the  lonely  moor. 
The  cemetery  was  enclosed  and  guarded  by  an  iron  railing 
so  high,  that  it  was  thought  to  be  unscaleable.  I  was, 
however,  commencing  the  study  of  botany  at  the  time, 
and  thinking  there  might  be  some  nice  flowers  and  curious 
epitaphs  among  the  grave-stones,  I  contrived,  by  help  of 
my  handkerchief,  to  scale  the  railing,  and  was  soon 
scampering  over  the  tombs  ;  some  of  the  natives  chanced 
to  perceive  me,  not  in  the  act  of  climbing  over  to,  but 
skipping  over,  the  burial-ground.  In  a  day  or  two  I 
observed  the  family  looking  on  me  with  unaccountable, 
though  not  angry  seriousness  :  at  last  the  good  old  grand 
mother  told  me,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  that  I  could  not 
live  long,  for  that  my  wraith  had  been  seen."  "And, 
pray,  where  ?  "  "  Leaping  over  the  stones  of  the  burial- 
ground."  The  old  lady  was  much  relieved  to  hear  that  it 
was  not  my  wraith,  but  myself. 

Akin  to  other  Highland  superstitions,  but  differing  from 
in  many  essential  respects,  is  the  belief—  for  super- 


NOTES.  381 

Btition  it  can  not  well  be  called  (quoth  the  wise  author  I  am 
quoting)  —  in  the  second-sight,  by  which,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
observes,  "  seems  to  be  meant  a  mode  of  seeing  superadded 
to  that  which  Nature  generally  bestows  ;  and  consists  of 
an  impression  made  either  by  the  mind  upon  the  eye  —  or 
by  the  eye  upon  the  mind,  by  which  things  distant  or  fu 
ture  are  perceived  and  seen,  as  if  they  were  present.  This 
deceptive  faculty  is  called  Traioshe  in  the  Gaelic,  which 
signifies  a  spectre  or  vision,  and  is  neither  voluntary  nor 
constant ;  but  consists  in  seeing  an  otherwise  invisible  ob 
ject,  without  any  previous  means  used  by  the  person  that 
sees  it  for  that  end.  The  vision  makes  such  a  lively  im 
pression  upon  the  seers,  that  they  neither  see  nor  think  of 
any  thing  else  except  the  vision,  as  long  as  it  continues ; 
and  then  they  appear  pensive  or  jovial,  according  to  the 
object  which  was  represented  to  them." 

There  arc  now  few  persons,  if  any,  (continues  Dr. 
Browne,)  who  pretend  to  this  faculty,  and  the  belief  in  it 
is  almost  generally  exploded.  Yet  it  can  not  be  denied 
that  apparent  proofs  of  its  existence  have  been  adduced, 
which  have  staggered  minds  not  prone  to  superstition. 
When  the  connection  between  cause  and  effect  can  be 
recognised,  things  which  would  otherwise  have  appeared 
wonderful,  and  almost  incredible,  are  viewed  as  ordinary 
occurrences.  The  impossibility  of  accounting  for  such  an 
extraordinary  phenomenon  as  the  alleged  faculty  on  philo 
sophical  principles,  or  from  the  laws  of  nature,  must  eve* 
leave  the  matter  suspended  between  rational  doubt  and 
confirmed  skepticism.  "  Strong  reasons  for  incredulity," 
says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  will  readily  occur."  This  faculty  of 
seeing  things  out  of  sight  is  local,  and  commonly  useless, 


382  NOTES. 

It  is  a  breach  of  the  common  order  of  things,  without  any 
visible  reason  or  perceptible  benefit.  It  is  ascribed  only  to 
n  people  very  little  enlightened,  and  among  them,  for  the 
most  part,  to  the  mean  and  ignorant. 

In  the  whole  history  of  Highland  superstitions,  there  is 
not  a  more  curious  fact  than  that  Dr.  James  Browne,  a 
gentleman  of  the  Edinburgh  bar,  in  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury,  should  show  himself  a  more  abject  believer  in  the 
truth  of  second-sight,  than  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  of  Lon 
don,  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

P.  287,  1.  4. 
The  pit  or  gallows  would  have  cured  my  grief. 

Until  the  year  1747,  the  Highland  Lairds  had  the  right 
of  punishing  serfs,  even  capitally,  in  so  far  that  they  often 
hanged,  or  imprisoned  them,  in  a  pit  or  dungeon,  where 
they  were  starved  to  death.  But  the  law  of  1746,  for  dis 
arming  the  Highlanders,  and  restraining  the  use  of  the 
Highland  garb,  was  followed  up  the  following  year  by  one 
of  a  more  radical  and  permanent  description.  This  was 
the  act  for  abolishing  the  heritable  jurisdictions,  which, 
though  necessary  in  a  rude  state  of  society,  were  wholly 
incompatible  with  an  advanced  stage  of  civilization.  By 
depriving  the  Highland  chiefs  of  their  judicial  powers,  it 
was  thought  that  the  sway  which,  for  centuries,  they  had 
held  over  their  people,  would  be  gradually  impaired ;  and 
that  by  investing  certain  judges,  who  were  amenable  to 
the  legislature  for  the  proper  discharge  of  their  duties, 
with  the  civil  and  criminal  jurisdiction  enjoyed  by  the 
proprietors  of  the  soil,  the  cause  of  good  government 


NOTES.  383 

would  be  promoted,  and  the  facilities  for  repressing  any 
attempts  to  disturb  the  public  tranquillity  increased. 

By  this  act,  (20  George  II.  c.  43,)  which  was  made  to 
the  whole  of  Scotland,  all  heritable  jurisdictions  of  justi 
ciary,  all  regalities  and  heritable  bailieries,  and  constabu 
laries,  (excepting  the  office  of  high  constable,)  and  all 
stewartries  and  sheriffships  of  smaller  districts,  which  were 
only  parts  of  counties,  were  dissolved,  and  the  powers  for 
merly  vested  in  them  were  ordained  to  be  exercised  by 
such  of  the  king's  courts  as  these  powers  would  have 
belonged  to,  if  the  jurisdictions  had  never  been  granted. 
All  sherifFships  and  stewartries  not  dissolved  by  the  stat 
ute,  namely,  those  which  comprehended  whole  counties, 
where  they  had  been  granted,  either  heritably  or  for  life, 
were  resumed  and  annexed  to  the  crown.  With  the 
exception  of  the  hereditary  justiciary  ship  of  Scotland, 
which  was  transferred  from  the  family  of  Argyle  to  the 
High  Court  of  Justiciary,  the  other  jurisdictions  were 
ordained  to  be  vested  in  sheriffs-  depute  or  Stewarts -depute, 
to  be  appointed  by  the  king  in  every  shire  or  stewartry  not 
dissolved  by  the  act.  As  by  the  twentieth  of  Union,  all 
heritable  offices  and  jurisdictions  were  reserved  to  the 
grantees  as  rights  of  property ;  compensation  was  ordained 
to  be  made  to  the  holders,  the  amount  of  which  was  after 
wards  fixed  by  parliament,  in  terms  of  the  act  of  Sederunt 
of  the  Court  of  Session,  at  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
pounds. 

P.  287,  1.  6. 

/  marched  —  when,  feigning  Royalty's  command, 
Against  the  clan  Macdonald,  Stairs's  Lord 
Sent  forth  exterminating  fire  and  sword 


384 


NOTES. 


I  can  not  agree  with  Brown,  the  author  of  an  able  work, 
"The  History  of  the  Highland  Clans,"  that  the  affair  of 
Glencoe  has  stamped  indelible  infamy  on  the  government 
of  King  William  III.,  if  by  this  expression  it  be  meant  that 
William's  own  memory  is  disgraced  by  that  massacre.  I 
see  no  proof  that  William  gave  more  than  general  orders 
to  subdue  the  remaining  malcontents  of  the  Macdonald 
clan ;  and  these  orders,  the  nearer  we  trace  them  to.  the 
government,  are  the  more  express  in  enjoining,  that  all 
those  who  would  promise  to  swear  allegiance  should  be 
spared.  As  these  orders  came  down  from  the  general 
government  to  individuals,  they  became  more  and  more 
severe,  and  at  last  merciless,  so  that  they  ultimately  ceased 
to  be  the  real  orders  of  government.  Among  these  false 
agents  of  government,  who  appears  with  most  disgrace,  is 
the  "Master  of  Stair,"  who  appears  in  the  business  more 
like  a  fiend  than  man.  When  issuing  his  orders  for  the 
attack  on  the  remainder  of  the  Macdonalds  in  Glencoe,  he 
expressed  a  hope  in  his  letter  "  that  the  soldiers  would 
trouble  the  government  with  no  prisoners." 

It  can  not  be  supposed  that  I  would  for  a  moment  pal 
liate  this  atrocious  event  by  quoting  the  provocations  not 
very  long  before  offered  by  the  Macdonalds  in  massacres 
of  the  Campbells.  But  they  may  be  alluded  to  as  causes, 
though  not  excuses.  It  is  a  part  of  the  melancholy  in 
struction  which  history  affords  us,  that  in  the  moral  as 
well  as  in  the  physical  world,  there  is  always  a  reaction 
equal  to  the  action.  The  banishment  of  the  Moors  from 
Spain  to  Africa  was  the  chief  cause  of  African  piracy  and 
Christian  slavery  among  the  Moors  for  centuries ;  and 


NOTES.  385 

since  the  reign  of  William  III.,  the  Irish  Orangemen  have 
been  the  Algerines  of  Ireland. 

The  affair  of  Glencoe  was  in  fact  only  a  lingering  trait 
of  horribly  barbarous  times,  though  it  was  the  more  shock 
ing  that  it  came  from  that  side  of  the  political  world  which 
professed  to  be  the  more  liberal  side,  and  it  occurred  at  a 
late  time  of  the  day,  when  the  minds  of  both  parties  had 
become  comparatively  civilized,  the  whigs  by  the  triumph 
of  free  principles,  and  the  tories  by  personal  experience  of 
the  evils  attending  persecution.  Yet  that  barbarism  still 
subsisted  in  too  many  minds  professing  to  act  on  liberal 
principles,  is  but  too  apparent  from  this  disgusting  tragedy. 

I  once  flattered  myself  that  the  Argyle  Campbells,  from 
whom  I  am  sprung,  had  no  share  in  this  massacre,  and 
a  direct  share  they  certainly  had  not.  But  on  inquiry  I 
find  that  they  consented  to  shutting  up  the  passes  of 
Glencoe  through  which  the  Macdonalds  might  escape ;  and 
perhaps  relations  of  my  great-grandfather  —  I  am  afraid 
to  count  their  distance  or  proximity  —  might  be  indirectly 
concerned  in  the  cruelty. 

But  children  are  not  answerable  for  the  crimes  of  their 
forefathers ;  and  I  hope  and  trust  that  the  descendants  of 
Breadalbane  and  Glenlyon  are  as  much  and  justly  at  their 
ease  on  this  subject  as  I  am. 

P.  294,  1.  2. 
Chance  snatched  them  from  proscription  and  despair. 

Many  Highland  families,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  rebel- 
lion  in  1745,  were  saved  from  utter  desolation  by  the  con 
trivances  of  some  of  their  more  sensible  members,  prtnci- 
S3 


38(J  NOTES. 

pally  the  women,  who  foresaw  the  consequences  of  the 
insurrection.  When  I  was  a  youth  in  the  Highlands,  I 
remember  an  old  gentleman  being  pointed  out  to  me,  who, 
finding  all  other  arguments  fail,  had,  in  conjunction  with 
his  mother  and  sisters,  bound  the  old  Laird  hand  and  foot, 
and  locked  him  up  in  his  own  cellar,  until  the  news  of  the 
battle  of  Culloden  arrived. 

A  device  pleasanter  to  the  reader  of  the  anecdote,  though 
not  to  the  sufferer,  was  practised  by  a  shrewd  Highland 
dame,  whose  husband  was  Charles- Stuart-mad,  and  was 
determined  to  join  the  insurgents.  He  told  his  wife  at 
night  that  he  should  start  early  to-morrow  morning  on 
horseback.  "  "Well,  but  you  will  allow  me  to  make  your 
breakfast  before  you  go  ? "  "  Oh  yes."  She  accordingly 
prepared  it,  and,  bringing  in  a  full  boiling  kettle,  poured 
it,  by  intentional  accident,  on  his  legs  ! 


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